• OF  THE 
SILENCES 


MARYE.  WALLER 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


OUT  OF  THE  SILENCES 


BOOKS  BY 
MARY    E.    WALLER 

THE  WOOD-CARVER  OF  'LYMPUS 

A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  RICH 

THE  LITTLE  CITIZEN 

SANNA  OF  THE  ISLAND  TOWN 

A  YEAR  OUT  OF  LIFE 

FLAMSTED  QUARRIES 

A  CRY  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

OUT  OF  THE  SILENCES 

FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

MY  RAGPICKER 

THROUGH    THE    GATES    OF    THE 

NETHERLANDS 
OUR  BENNY 


OUT   OF 
THE   SILENCES 


BY 


MARY    E.   WALLER 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,   BROWN,  AND   COMPANY 
1918 


Copyright,  1918, 
BY  MARY  E.  WALLER. 


All  rights  reserved 


Norfonotj  ^irtaa 
Set  up  and  electrotyped  by  J.  S.  Gushing  Co.,  Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


PS 

3/3? 
\A|  i5"o 


"  Go  through,  go  through  the  gates ; 
prepare  ye  the  way  of  the  people ; 
cast  up,  cast  up  the  highway;  gather  out  the  stones ; 
lift  up  a  standard  for  the  people." 


1521438 


CONTENTS 
PART  ONE 

PAGE 

I    THE  LAND 3 

II    THE  BOY 7 

III  A  FOREST  INTEBLUDE 103 

IV  THE  PATH  OF  LIFE '133 

PART  TWO 

I    REVISITED 181 

II    AT  THE  NEW  MISSION 217 

in    THE  MAN 241 

IV  IN  THE  HILLS  OF  FRANCE     ...        .        .        .335 


OUT  OF  THE  SILENCES 


PART  ONE 


I 

THE  LAND 


THE  LAND 


WINTER  silence  is  on  plain  and  plateau,  on  moun- 
tain slope,  pass  and  summit,  on  every  butte,  in  every 
gulch  and  gully,  on  all  the  river  benches  below  the 
bluffs. 

This  all-pervading  silence  is  hushed  into  deeper 
stillness  by  thickly  falling  snow ;  and  even  the  deeper 
stillness,  which  makes  the  eardrums  of  those  who  hear 
it  ache,  is  intensified  when  at  intervals  it  is  broken  by 
the  howl  of  the  gray  wolf,  hunger  haunted. 

There  is  audible  no  cry  of  the  human;    neverthe- 
less the  cry  is  here,  only  lost  in  the  vast  of  a  cold- 
benumbed  and  snow-smothered  land. 
2 

The  course  of  a  Canadian  river,  the  Souris,  is  laid 
from  its  source  in  Saskatchewan  southeast  with  ample 
curve  far  into  the  Dakota  country ;  thence,  doubling 
on  itself  in  an  immense  loop,  it  flows  northwest  into 
Manitoba. 

Northeast  of  the  huge,  longitudinal  pocket  of  land 
thus  formed,  and  contiguous  to  it,  are  the  fastnesses 
of  the  Turtle  Mountains.  The  Souris  is  a  frozen  moat 
at  the  western  base  of  this  natural  fortress  of  the 
prairies  and  the  plains. 

5 


6  Out  of  the  Silences 

Southwest  from  the  bottom  of  this  pocket,  a  hun- 
dred miles  away  across  its  great  wind-swept  plateau, 
the  Missouri  duplicates,  but  on  a  smaller  scale,  the 
Canadian  river's  curve  and  half  cinctures  a  lone 
Indian  reservation. 

East  from  this  reservation  a  hundred  miles,  west 
a  hundred,  northeast  a  hundred  and  fifty  to  Turtle 
Mountain,  this  land  of  the  Dakotas  lies  buried  under 
an  accumulation  of  snows  :  an  area  of  wintry  deso- 
lation, approximately  thirty  thousand  square  miles, 
with  a  population  of  whites,  half-breeds,  Indians,  a 
few  thousand  souls  all  told  —  almost  the  God- 
forgotten. 


n 

THE   BOY 


II 

THE  BOY 

IN  THE  DUGOUT 

i 

IT  lies  under  the  snows  on  an  upper  bench  of  the 
river;  and  within  it  are  two  men  and  a  boy.  One, 
the  uncle  of  the  child,  while  crossing  the  plains  lost 
his  sheep  hi  the  opening  blizzard  of  the  season.  The 
other,  a  saddle-maker  from  the"  Turtle  Mountain 
region  just  north  of  the  Canadian  border,  having  sold 
his  wares  among  the  widely  scattered  settlers,  was 
on  his  return  trip  to  the  mountains  when  the  same 
blizzard  compelled  him  to  seek  shelter  in  a  second- 
hand dugout.  He  was  the  means  of  saving  the  boy 
and  the  man.  Since  that  day,  early  in  December, 
the  three  had  bunked  in  together. 

The  early  setting-in  of  the  winter  and  its  continued 
severity  were  phenomenal.  The  plainsmen,  the  men 
and  soldiers  at  the  fort,  the  Indians  on  the  reservation, 
the  hillmen,  the  few  white  settlers  on  their  farms,  all 
shared  in  the  suffering  consequent  on  the  rigors  of 
this  never  to  be  forgotten  winter  in  the  eighties 
when  the  cattle  on  the  plains,  the  sheep  in  the  moun- 
tains, the  horses  on  the  range  perished  by  the  hun- 
dreds. 

The  two  men  and  the  boy  have  been  already  seven 
9 


io  Out  of  the  Silences 

weeks  in  the  dugout.  Once  at  the  risk  of  life  the 
saddle-maker  took  his  pony  and  attempted  to  make 
his  way  to  the  reservation  thirty  miles  distant.  The 
attempt  proved  abortive  and  he  returned  exhausted 
to  his  companions. 

The  prospect  of  captivity  seemed  indefinite. 
There  was  no  more  fodder;  their  provisions  were 
exhausted ;  the  fuel  for  the  open  fire  reduced  to  a 
pile  the  size  of  a  bushel  basket. 

The  men,  lying  flat  on  their  blankets  but  support- 
ing themselves  on  their  elbows,  are  playing  cards. 
The  boy  in  like  position,  but  close  to  the  small  fire, 
is  reading  in  an  undertone  from  a  soiled  coverless  book 
open  on  his  blanket.  Now  and  then  he  spells  a  word 
as  if  feeling  his  way. 

The  men  play  in  silence  with  a  mechanical  monotony 
that  lacks  both  interest  and  energy.  Their  handling 
of  the  cards  is  expressive  of  mere  grim  listless  dogged- 
ness  a  trifle  short  of  desperation.  It  might  have 
easily  been  that  they  were  playing  for  time  as  against 
eternity.  The  saddle-maker  is  forty-five,  his  com- 
panion not  more  than  twenty-eight,  but  both  faces 
look  prematurely  aged,  winter-worn,  gaunt  from  in- 
sufficient food,  strangely  pinched  about  the  nostrils. 

Suddenly  the  younger  threw  down  the  cards  and 
spoke  in  a  low  tone : 

"It's  no  go,  Bunkie.  Let's  throw  for  luck  to- 
morrow and  —  we'll  settle  which  of  us  goes  to  the 
fort." 

The  saddle-maker  nodded.  He  felt  in  his  pocket 
for  the  dice.  "Three  runnin'  throws  o'  the  deuce." 

"Done,"  said  the  younger  man  grimly. 

They  shook  the  dice  in  their  hands :  the  saddle- 
maker  with  slow  deliberate  motion,  his  junior  with 


The  Boy  II 

short  quick  jerks  of  his  fist.  Before  they  threw,  the 
boy  began  suddenly  to  spell  in  a  loud  monotone : 

"A-s-s,  ass;  w-a-g,  wag;  e-d,  ed.  What's  that, 
Bunkie-nunc?" 

The  rattling  of  the  dice  ceased.  His  uncle  looked 
puzzled. 

"Try  it  again,  Bob." 

"A-s,  as;  s-w-a-g,  swag;  e-d,  ed.  What's  it 
mean?" 

"Well,  I'll  be  blistered,"  the  saddle-maker  broke 
in,  amazement  audible  in  his  exclamation;  "wot  ye 
givin'  us,  Son?" 

"The  big  flood." 

"  Flood,  eh  ?  Ye're  gettin'  forrard  o'  yer  time ;  the 
Missouri  can't  get  out  o'  this  straight- jacket  'fore 
May.  Wot  flood?" 

"Noah's  Ark's  flood." 

"I  heard  tell  o'  that."  The  saddle-maker  looked 
for  a  moment  as  if  the  dark  walls  of  the  dugout  had 
opened  suddenly  and  shown  him  a  vision. 

"Read  what  comes  before  it,  Bob."  His  uncle 
slipped  the  dice  into  his  pocket. 

"'And  God  remembered  Noah  and  every  living 
thing,  and  the  cattle  that  was  with  him  in  the  ark  — ' " 

The  saddle-maker  interrupted  him ;  the  tone  was 
bitter:  "He'd  sure  be  doin'  us  some  favor  if  He'd 
remember  us-all  —  an'  the  little  beast." 

The  boy,  unheeding,  read  on:  "'And  God  made  a 
wind  to  pass  over  the  earth  and  the  waters  a-s-s, 
ass ;  w-a-g,  wag ;  e-d,  ed  — •  ? '"  He  looked  inquiringly 
at  his  uncle  who  answered  the  question  in  the  boy's 
voice  and  eyes. 

"It  means  the  waters  stopped  rising  any  higher  — 
asswaged."  He  repeated  it  for  the  child's  benefit. 


12  Out  of  the  Silences 

"They  used  to  spell  it  with  a    u   when   I   was    a 
kid-" 

A  pleased  smile  furrowed  still  deeper  the  saddle- 
maker's  cheeks.  "Blame  me,  if  I  don't  begin  to 
remember  somp'in7  Hbout  the  animiles  in  that  ark  or 
yourn.  Son.  Give  me  some  more."  He  dropped  the 
dice  into  the  pocket  of  his  shirt. 

"No ;  I'll  sing  7em  to  you,"  said  the  boy.  slapping 
to  the  book  and  springing  to  his  feet.  "I  make  be- 
lieve this  is  our  ark,  an'  you  an'  me,  an7  the  pony. — 
Spud  is  an  elephant,  —  an'  Bunkie-nunc  are  the 
3.nfma.Is.  My  mother  used  to  sing  it  to  me,"  he 
said  proudly.  "Now,  listen," 

He  sang  in  a  clear  child's  falsetto,  at  first  with  much 
gusto,  miming  from  time  to  time  the  various  animals, 
and  imitating  their  calls  and  cries  to  his  own  joy  and 
the  delight  of  his  audience. 

"The  animals  entered  two  by  two 
The  elephant  and  the  kangaroo. 

"  Weasels  and  badgers  and  blacktafl  deer 
And  mountain  steep  with  horns  so  queer. 

u  Too-whit,  too-whoo  !    And  a  terrible  growl  — 
The  cinnamon  bear  and  the  big  brown  owL 

"  Coyotes  and  wolves  and  prairie  dogs, 
And  coons  and  loons  and  great  fat  hogs — " 

His  efforts  to  grunt  and  snort  at  the  same  time  were 
so  ludicrous  that  the  two  men  actually  laughed 
aloud.  The  boy  broke  into  a  gleeful  cackle  that  was 
quickly  checked.  A  strangely  tired  look  came  into 
his  face.  He  swallowed  hard  once  or  twice ;  then,  as 
if  ashamed  to  make  such  confession  of  weakness,  he 


The  Bey  13 

said  in  a  low  voice:  "I  guess  I  won't  sing  the  rest  o* 
it  —  not  to-night.  It's  too  long  —  an'  —  an'  Fm  so 
awful  hungry  I  feel  queer  —  here/'  He  laid  Ins 


The  men's  faces  went  gray  white. 

"Come  here,  Bob,"  said  his  uncle. 

The  boy  staggered  slightly.  His  nude  took  him 
in  the  hollow  of  his  arm  and  drew  an  end  of  the  blanket 
closely  about  him.  The  man  cleared  his  throat  before 
he  spoke  again  :  "ThisTl  warm  yon  up,  Bob.  Well 
have  supper  now."  He  looked  significantly  at  the 
saddle-maker  who  rose  painfully,  as  if  cramped,  and 
opening  the  rude  plank  door  went  out. 

The  man,  stffl  holding  the  slight  form  of  the  child 
closely  against  him,  took  two  sticks  of  Missouri  drift 
and  laid  them  on  the  dying  fire.  The  wood  caught. 
The  boy  watched  it  listlessly.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
saddle-maker  came  in.  He  handed  two  small  and 
narrow  strips  of  hung  meat  to  the  younger  man  who, 
drawing  a  knife  from  his  pocket,  began  to  cut  them 
into  small  pieces. 

The  saddle-maker  took  up  a  frying-pan  from  the 
corner.  Carefully  putting  the  two  sticks  on  one 
side  of  the  fire  he  raked  together  the  embers,  and 
dropping  a  handful  of  brown  rice  into  the  pan  began 
to  parch  it. 

"Is  that  all?"  Bob  spoke  dolefully. 

"AD,  Son?"  The  saddle-maker  forced  a  laugfc. 
"Why,  ain't  this  'Hough  for  ymtf  IH  bet  ye  the 
animiles  in  that  ark  o'  yourn  would  say  this  "ere  was 
a  might)*  good  feed  —  barrin'  a  hog." 

The  boy  smiled  faintly.  "But  it's  for  us-aU,"  he 
said  —  "animfles,"  He  smiled  again  as  he  spoke  the 
last  word. 


14  Out  of  the  Silences 

"My  eye!  Ye  thought  that,  did  ye?  That  only 
goes  to  show  how  a  little  cuss  like  you  can  make  a 
big  mistake."  He  shook  the  pan  back  and  forth 
with  an  easy,  loose-handling  of  it  that  betokened 
practice.  The  kernels  rattled. 

Bob  sniffed.     "That  smells  bully." 

"Ye  bet  it  does,  an'  it's  goin'  to  taste  better'n  it 
smells.  Ye  see  yer  uncle  an'  me  don't  want  no 
supper  —  not  now.  We'll  have  it  later.  Leastwise 
I'll  speak  for  myself :  I  couldn't  eat  a  ripe  cherry  if 
'n  accommodatin'  wind  just  flung  one  right  off  the 
tree  into  my  mouth;  no  sir-ee.  Speakin'  o'  winds, 
we're  goin'  to  set  up  to-night  to  watch  out  for  one 
ourselves,  ain't  we,  pard?" 

His  companion  nodded. 

"What  kind  of  a  wind,  Bunkie-mmc?"  Bob 
roused  up  for  he  scented  a  mystery. 

"We  want  the  kind  of  a  wind  you  was  readin'  'bout 
in  the  Good  Book,  I  reckon." 

The  saddle-maker  put  a  stop  to  further  question- 
ing. 

"There  now,  Son,  eat  away,  but  slow  an'  sure  does 
it.  Count  'em  all,  every  grain,  an'  only  ten  to 
once." 

The  child  needed  no  urging.  Little  by  little  he 
was  fed,  the  men  seeing  to  it  that  he  chewed  both  rice 
and  meat  thoroughly.  When  he  had  finished  he 
heaved  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

"I  can  sing  you  the  rest  'bout  the  animals  now." 

"No,  Bob,  you  keep  that  for  another  night.  We 
want  you  to  bunk  in  early  for  Bill  and  me  must  set 
up  for  that  wind.  Guess  we'll  be  lookin'  to  see  if 
it's  comin'  now,  Bunkie."  His  uncle  spoke  to  the 
saddle-maker;  then,  to  the  boy:  "You  set  right 


The  Boy  15 

here  'longside  of  the  fire  while  we  go  on  a  still  hunt  for 
that  wind  —  The  boy  interrupted  him. 

"No,  no,  take  me  too ;  let  me  see  the  wind  comin.' 
I'm  warm,"  his  voice  grew  shrill  in  his  eagerness  to 
gain  permission  to  be  one  of  the  exploring  party, 
"an'  I've  never  hunted  a  wind  before,  never  in  all 
my  life.  Oh,  please,  please,  Bunkie-nunc,  let  me 
go." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other.  The  saddle- 
maker  nodded.  The  younger  man  answered  the  boy : 

"You  can  go  this  once,"  —  Bob  gave  vent  to  a 
prolonged  joyous  squeal  and  squirmed  out  of  the 
arm  that  still  held  him  so  closely,  —  "but  you'll  have 
to  whistle  for  the  wind  that's  goin'  to  bring  us  luck." 

The  boy  was  already  wrapping  himself  in  his  hooded 
blanket.  The  men  said  nothing,  but  put  on  theirs. 
The  saddle-maker  raked  together  some  ashes  over 
the  embers  and  the  two  charred  sticks.  The  three 
went  out  into  the  night,  or  rather  the  dawn  of  night. 
The  full  moon  was  just  rising.  They  could  not  see  it 
for  the  bluff  behind  the  dugout  was  too  high;  but 
they  were  at  once  aware  of  its  presence. 

The  blue  black  of  the  winter  sky,  closing  above  them 
like  a  vast  lid,  was  flooded  gradually  with  a  crystalline 
light.  The  heavens  seemed  to  expand  and  dome  the 
white  world  about  them.  An  upper  stratum  of  air 
was  charged  with  the  finest  dust  of  wind-whirled 
snow,  too  fine,  too  light,  too  dry,  like  high-blown 
volcanic  dust,  to  settle  readily. 

Of  a  sudden  some  powerful  suction  of  the  wind, 
which  they  could  hear  grumming  on  over  the  vast 
plateau,  caught  up  a  mass  of  uncrusted  snow  from 
under  and  along  the  edge  of  the  bluff  some  hundred 
yards  from  where  they  were  standing,  and  whirled  it 


16  Out  of  the  Silences 

aloft  in  a  magnificent  spiral  all  sparkle  and  glitter. 
Higher  and  higher  it  rose  till  the  level  rays  of  the 
moon  transfixed  it,  suffusing  the  mass  with  faint 
rose,  violet,  and  purple.  Slowly  a  pulsating  arc  of 
delicate  color  outlined  itself  distinctly  far,  far  above 
their  heads,  but  only  for  a  moment ;  it  vanished  with 
the  dispersion  of  the  snow-spout. 

The  saddle-maker  broke  the  silence. 

"Wasn't  there  somp'in'  'bout  a  bow  in  that  ark 
story  o'  yourn,  Son?  I  heard  a  circuit  rider  preach 
'bout  it  good  many  years  ago." 

"Yep."  The  boy  seemed  lost  in  wonderment. 
He  roused  himself.  "But  that  was  a  rainbow,  and 
this  was  a  snowbow,  wasn't  it,  Bunkie-nunc?" 

"Right  you  are,  Bob,  an'  you  won't  be  likely  to 
see  another  soon." 

"What  lifted  the  snow  up  so  high  and  so  quick, 
all  curly  like?" 

"The  wind;  and  you  won't  have  to  whistle  for  it 
either ;  it's  sure  up  there  to-night.  We'll  go  up  an' 
see  how  it's  blowin'." 

By  daily  work  the  men  had  trodden  down  the  snow 
on  the  ledge  about  the  dugout,  and  against  the  bluff 
where  the  snow  had  drifted  deep,  forming  a  sloping 
talus  as  it  were,  they  had  stamped,  and  dug  out,  and 
shaped  a  stairway.  At  the  top  of  it,  on  the  level  of 
the  plateau  just  above  the  dugout,  was  a  pole.  It 
was  so  placed  to  emphasize  the  position  of  this  refuge 
to  some  plainsman  threatened  with  disaster.  The 
men  climbed  to  the  top  with  the  boy  between  them. 

Around  the  pole,  also,  the  snow  was  trodden  firm, 
kept  so  by  the  two  men.  Day  after  day,  week  in, 
week  out,  the  saddle-maker  and  his  companion  took 
turns  on  watch  at  this  spot,  looking,  waiting  for 


The  Boy  17 

some  sign  of  life.  Round  and  round  the  pole  each 
man  paced  on  his  shift,  or  leaped  or  ran  according  to 
the  cold  and  the  power  of  the  wind,  so  widening  the 
circle  of  trodden  snow  from  time  to  time.  But  not 
once  had  the  uniform  whiteness  shown  any  object  on  it. 
Not  once  had  the  awful  silence  been  broken  by 
howl  of  wolf  or  cry  of  any  living  thing.  Everywhere 
silence,  muted  snow-silence:  soft,  fine,  dry  snow 
filling  the  air,  falling  day  after  day,  silently,  relent- 
lessly, smothering  at  times  in  its  density;  at  times 
scudding  before  a  biting  wind  that  attained  a  velocity 
of  seventy  miles  an  hour. 

In  all  these  weeks  there  had  been  no  melting  of 
these  snows,  consequently  no  possible  chance  for  the 
formation  of  a  crust,  the  road  of  safety  for  the  northern 
plainsman. 

The  younger  man  knew  that  there  was  but  one 
chance  for  their  lives ;  the  atmospheric  conditions 
must  be  just  right.  On  this  day  these  conditions 
had  been  in  part  fulfilled :  the  sun  had  shone  with 
real  warmth;  a  thin,  surface  snow  responded,  and 
melted  little  by  little.  It  remained  for  the  night  to 
create  conditions  that  should  enable  the  three  to 
live  a  little  longer  a  life  that,  despite  all  hardship, 
was  dear  to  them. 

On  reaching  the  plateau  the  younger  man  drew  a 
deep  breath.  "  We're  in  luck,"  he  said. 

"You  bet,"  was  the  saddle-maker's  reply. 

The  child  was  wild  with  joy.  The  crust  was 
already  firm  enough  to  bear  his  slight  weight.  He 
slid,  shrieking  in  his  delight,  back  and  forth,  round 
and  round,  first  on  one  foot  then  on  both.  Finally 
he  lay  down  flat  on  his  stomach  and  propelled  himself 
belly  bump  rapidly  over  the  shining  surface. 


1 8  Out  of  the  Silences 

"  Come  on,  Bunkie-mmc !  Come  on  and  slide  !  I 
say  it's  rippin'  —  bully ! " 

"Not  strong  enough  for  me,  Bob,  not  yet  —  Hi, 
there!"  he  exclaimed  as  the  boy  in  his  exuberant 
fun  sat  down  suddenly,  the  impact  breaking  the 
crust.  He  floundered  helpless,  half  smothered  in  the 
soft  snow  till  his  uncle's  rescuing  hand  pulled  him 
forth  and  set  him  on  his  feet. 

"That'll  learn  you  caution,  numskull,"  he  said 
gently;  "and  you  sure  need  it." 

Bob  began  his  antics  again,  but  this  time  with  an 
eye  open  for  untoward  events.  The  two  men  spoke 
together  in  low  tones. 

"By  three  it  will  be  hard  enough;  it's  dropping 
steady  now.  It  will  go  below  twenty,  an'  no  chance 
of  thawin'  till  sun-up." 

"And  the  wind  just  right  for  the  fort.  It's  a  piece 
of  damned  good  luck  for  us-all."  The  saddle-maker 
was  emphatic. 

"What  was  it  Bob  read ?  —  'And  God  made  a  wind 
to  pass  over  the  earth'?" 

The  saddle-maker  answered  solemnly:  "He  done 
just  that;  but,"  he  added  with  stern  emphasis,  "/ 
go ;  ye  mind  that." 

The  younger  man  smiled.     "We'll  toss  for  it — " 

"No,  ye  don't!  I  know  ye:  loaded  dice  ain't  in 
it  when  ye  get  yer  mind  set  on  stakin'  yer  life  for 
-as-all." 

"I've  got  to  go,  Bunkie;  I  want  to  go.  You 
ain't  fit.  You  'bout  laid  yourself  out  stiff  tryin'  to 
make  the  reservation  more'n  a  month  ago.  You've 
got  to  stay  —  d'you  hear?  —  an'  look  out  for  the 
boy ;  for  I'm  goin'  sure  as  there's  a  God  above.  No 
—  don't  you  say  one  word.  It'll  make  me  mad 


The  Boy  19 

clear  through,  an'  when  I'm  mad  like  that  I  ain't 
responsible  for  what  I  do,  an'  you  know  it." 

"That's  so."  The  saddle-maker  assented  without 
any  apparent  irritation.  "Ye  mean  ye'd  rather  I'd 
stay  on  an'  look  out  for  the  boy  —  rather?" 

"I  mean  just  that."  The  words  rang  out  sharply. 
They  were  heard  by  Bob  careering  over  the  snow  crust 
some  twenty  feet  from  the  pole. 

"Did  you  call  me,  Nunkie?"  he  cried  in  a  voice 
shrill  with  excitement. 

"Nope ;   but  come  on  —  time  to  bunk  in." 

"Look,  look,  I'm  flying!"  he  shrieked,  fearing  the 
men  might  not  notice  him.  He  had  opened  a  flap 
of  his  blanket  and  found  that  the  strong  wind  catch- 
ing and  filling  it  was  carrying  him  on  without  any 
effort  of  his  own.  He  sailed  straight  into  his  uncle's 
legs. 

"He's  caught  on  mighty  quick,  the  little  cuss;  ye 
can't  get  ahead  o'  him.     He'll  know  a  thing  or  two, 
an'  learn  you  an'  me,  'fore  he's  ten." 
2 

The  three  made  their  way  down  to  the  dugout, 
Bob  plying  his  uncle  with  questions  at  the  rate  of 
forty  a  minute  as  to  the  how,  whence,  wherefore  of  his 
newly  acquired  power  of  flying  with  a  blanket. 

His  uncle  made  only  a  feeble  attempt  to  satisfy 
his  insatiate  curiosity ;  he  knew  it  would  be  an  all- 
night  job.  The  boy  hied  him  to  his  bunk  in  the 
corner  and  wrapping  himself  closely  in  the  blankets 
drew  a  corner  over  his  head.  But  for  a  time  his  un- 
wonted excitement  prevented  him  from  sleeping. 
After  he  had  turned  restlessly  a  few  times,  his  uncle 
spoke : 

"What's  the  matter,  Bob ? " 


2O  Out  of  the  Silences 

"I  don't  know ;  I'm  seeing  things  — " 

"What  things?" 

"Oh,  just  things  —  sparkles  an'  the  snow  whirlin' 
an'  the  moon  big  —  big — "  He  turned  again,  a 
little  sleepy  at  last.  "Sing  me  something,  Bunkie- 
nunc,  please."  This  was  always  his  request  when  he 
was  overtired. 

"What  do  you  want,  Bob?" 

"You  know,  — "  the  voice  dragged  a  little,  —  "the 
Texan  Rang-er — "  The  voice  dropped  away  into 
half-sleep. 

"He's  most  gone,"  said  the  saddle-maker.  "Sing, 
Bunkie." 

And  the  man  sang  one  of  the  dozen  verses  of  an 
old  improvised  song  that  he  and  others  far,  far  in  the 
south  under  desert  skies  had  made  to  while  away  time. 

"  I  have  saw  the  fruits  'er  gamblin',  its  hardships  I  know 

well. 
I  have  rode  the  Rocky  Mountains  wild,  I've  rode  the 

streets  of  Hell. 
I  have  been  down  in  the  Great  Staked  Plains  where  the 

wild  Apache  roams." 

His  voice,  a  full  fine  baritone,  filled  the  dugout 
with  its  resonance,  but  as  he  went  on  it  sank  to  a 
gentle  minor,  almost  an  undertone,  soothing  al- 
though tinged  with  melancholy : 

"  Perhaps  you  have  a  sister,  boy,  likewise  a  sweetheart 

true; 

Maybe  you  have  a  mother  who  at  home  would  grieve 
o'er  you." 

The  four  lines  that  followed  were  almost  a  whispered 
recitative : 


The  Boy  21 

"So  if  you  have  any  in-c/i-nation  to  rove  or  roam  from 

home  — 

Take  this  advice  from  a  Texan  Ranger,  Son:  You'd 
better  stay  at  home." 

Bob  was  asleep,  and  soundly.  The  men  proceeded 
with  their  preparations  which  they  had  been  un- 
willing for  him  to  see.  They  spoke  but  little.  Once 
the  younger  man  left  the  dugout  and  climbed  to  the 
level  of  the  plateau  to  feel  the  wind  and  test  the 
crust.  When  he  came  in  he  reported  all  going  well. 
At  twelve  the  saddle-maker  insisted  that  he  lie 
down  and  sleep. 

"Ye  can't  set  round  till  three  or  thereabouts  an' 
make  them  thirty  miles  to  the  fort  in  good  time  — 
it's  beyond  bein'  human.  Turn  in,  an'  I'll  wake 
ye  in  time." 

The  man,  wrapping  himself  in  his  blanket,  turned 
in  and  slept  as  soundly  as  the  boy. 

3 

The  saddle-maker  waited  a  while,  then,  taking  his 
hunting  knife  from  his  outfit  bag,  he  went  out  closing 
the  door  softly  behind  him.  There  were  certain 
things  that  just  for  to-night  he  wished  to  do  in  silence 
and  alone. 

x  He  entered  a  small  dugout  beside  theirs  and  felt 
in  the  dark  for  the  pony.  There  had  been  two  of 
them  when  the  men  first  sought  refuge  in  this  hole 
in  the  earth  —  the  boy's  and  his  own ;  the  third  had 
been  lost  with  the  sheep.  Like  the  Indians  on  the 
reservation  they  had  been  obliged  that  winter  to 
kill  one  for  their  sustenance.  It  was  Spud's  turn 
now.  The  saddle-maker  made  short  work.  He 
determined  the  boy  should  never  know.  There 


22  Out  of  the  Silences 

would  be  no  getting  a  morsel  into  his  mouth  if  he 
realized  his  pony  had  been  sacrificed. 

Before  he  reentered  the  dugout  he,  also,  climbed 
to  the  top  of  the  bank  to  look  about,  ascertain  the 
time  of  night  by  the  moon,  test  the  crust,  and  feel  the 
wind.  He  was  satisfied  with  conditions  when  he 
returned  to  the  dugout.  Later  on  he  opened  the 
door  and  looked  out:  the  moon,  full  and  clear,  was 
riding  high  overhead.  He  calculated  it  must  be 
about  half-past  two. 

He  roused  the  sleeping  man  who  took  off  his 
shirt  and  wrapped  a  long  piece  of  flannel  about 
twenty  inches  wide  round  and  round  his  body, 
swathing  it  against  the  piercing  cold  and  wind. 
Then  he  dressed  himself  for  his  trip  of  thirty 
miles  to  the  fort  where  rations  and  help  must 
be  obtained.  As  a  last  preparation  he  slit  two 
arm  holes  in  his  blanket. 

The  saddle-maker  took  a  pair  of  skis  he  had 
manufactured  out  of  what  the  dugout  and  the  pony 
yielded,  two  snowshoes,  which  he  had  with  him  when 
he  was  overtaken  by  the  storm,  also  a  small  hatchet, 
and  went  out. 

The  other,  left  alone,  bent  over  the  child,  then 
straightened  himself  suddenly,  turned  away  and 
taking  from  under  his  empty  outfit  bag  a  contrivance 
of  canvas  followed  the  saddle-maker. 

4 

Above,  the  men  found  that  the  wind  was  in- 
creasing in  strength  but  still  blowing  steadily  in 
the  right  direction.  The  crust  was  firm.  The  cold 
intense. 

The  younger  adjusted  his  skis  and  slung  the  snow- 
shoes  on  his  back.  The  saddle-maker  hacked  off  a 


The  Boy  23 

portion,  some  two  feet,  from  the  pole ;  he  tied  it  on 
the  snowshoes.  Then  he  thrust  a  small  package 
wrapped  in  canvas  into  the  other's  hand. 

The  young  man  spoke  sharply:  "No!  You  don't 
come  anything  like  that  over  me.  You'd  starve 
yourself." 

"Take  it,"  said  the  saddle-maker  sternly;  "we've 
got  the  other  meat — " 

"You've  kiUed  Spud?" 

"Yep;  an'  don't  ye  fret  yerself  'bout  us-all.  We 
can  hang  on  a  good  many  days  — " 

"For  God's  sake  don't  tell  Bob  'bout  the  pony," 
said  the  other  in  a  low  voice. 

"Ye  can  bet  yer  life  I  ain't  takin'  no  chances 
thataway." 

"I'll  be  back  inside  two  days  —  if  this  weather 
holds." 

"Sure  thing,"  said  the  saddle-maker  with  fine 
assurance.  Each  knew,  however,  that  neither  could 
deceive  the  other. 

The  man  rose  to  his  feet.  The  saddle-maker 
handed  him  the  rag  of  canvas;  he  slipped  his  arm 
through  the  arm-piece  of  wood. 

"So  long,  Bill,"  he  said  lightly. 

"So  long,  Bunkie." 

That  was  all. 

The  younger  man  turned  at  an  angle  to  the  wind. 
The  triangle  of  canvas  on  the  piece  of  wood  suddenly 
flapped  with  a  report  that  sounded  flat  in  the  frost- 
filled  air;  the  small  three-cornered  sail  bellied;  the 
man  was  off,  skimming  the  crust  at  the  rate  of  a 
mile  in  three  minutes. 


24  Out  of  the  Silences 

5 

The  saddle-maker  stood  on  the  same  spot  watching 
the  dark  object  and  its  foreshortened  shadow  speed- 
ing over  the  silvered  crust.  He  knew  that  once  the 
first  swell  should  be  passed  he  could  no  longer  see 
it.  He  knew  that  for  those  thirty  miles  that  lay 
between  the  man  and  the  fort  there  would  be  one 
swell  after  the  other,  billowing  white  with  the  regu- 
larity of  ocean  waves  over  the  great  plateau  of  the 
Missouri. 

He  watched  the  diminishing  blot  on  the  white. 
Once  some  quick  half  turn,  or  tack,  and  the  canvas 
caught  the  moonlight  much  as  the  breast  of  a  gull, 
turning  at  an  angle,  catches  the  sunlight,  so  sending 
a  signal-gleam  to  the  watcher. 

He  strained  his  eyes  to  see  the  almost  indistin- 
guishable speck;  another  gleam,  a  mere  point  of 
accentuated  light.  When  he  looked  again  he  could 
see  nothing. 

6 

Owing  to  the  depth  of  snow  continually  augmented 
by  almost  daily  blizzards,  high  winds,  and  the  inten- 
sity of  cold,  no  mail  had  gone  out  from  the  fort  or 
come  into  it  for  two  weeks. 

One  morning  four  Indians  from  the  reservation 
made  their  way  to  the  post.  They  were  nearly  ex- 
hausted. They  said  that  most  of  their  dogs  and 
ponies  were  being  killed  for  food,  and  begged  that 
rations  be  sent  to  relieve  the  distress  of  their  people. 
They  likewise  reported  that  not  far  outside  the  con- 
fines of  the  post  they  had  found  the  body  of  a  man 
which  they  managed  between  them  to  bring  in; 
they  had  left  it  in  one  of  the  empty  scout-huts.  .  .  . 

The  quartermaster  identified  the  body  ;  a  foreman 


The  Boy  25 

on  a  sheep  ranch  some  seventy  miles  to  the  west. 
A  slip  of  paper  inside  his  shirt  gave  briefly  the  location 
of  the  dugout  and  the  desperate  condition  facing  the 
boy  and  man.  It  was  an  appeal,  solemn  in  its  ur- 
gency, to  rescue  them. 

The  Colonel  called  for  volunteers.  The  mail 
sergeant  and  six  men  at  once  responded.  Forty- 
eight  hours  after  the  departure  of  the  rescue  squad 
in  the  mail  sledge  they  returned  bringing  both  man 
and  boy  with  them.  The  frost  was  already  in  the 
saddle-maker's  brain.  The  child  was  in  delirium. 

Weeks  afterward,  when  the  surgeon  pronounced 
the  boy's  recovery  permanent,  the  nine-year-old  Bob 
Collamore  had  made,  but  all  unconsciously,  the  first 
turn  along  that  strangely  deviating  earthly  pathway 
we  name  "life"  :  he  had  both  experienced  and  endured. 

ON  THE  ROAD  TO  PARADISE 
i 

The  saddle-maker  was  a  much  married  man.  His 
first  venture  was  made  in  his  extreme  youth.  He  had 
little  comfort  from  it,  and  with  mutual  relief  the  two 
agreed  to  the  annulment  of  their  youthful  vows.  All 
this  happened  far  away  in  the  lake  and  forest  region 
of  northern  Minnesota  where  among  the  scattered 
whites  and  the  many  Chippewa  he  learned  his  trade. 

After  ten  years'  enjoyment  of  his  freedom,  he  took 
unto  himself  a  widow  of  a  half-breed,  Scotch  on  the  pa- 
ternal side,  Cree  on  the  maternal,  who  had  peddled  his 
wares  along  the  border.  She  was  a  sturdy  woman 
who  proved  for  the  next  eight  years  to  be  his  help- 
mate in  the  full  sense  of  that  word.  She  had  one 
small  son,  Colin  McGillie,  whom  the  saddle-maker  in 
the  kindness  of  his  heart  looked  upon  as  his  own. 


26  Out  of  the  Silences 

Mrs.  McGillie  herself,  duly  wedded  as  Mrs.  William 
Plunket,  immediately  began  to  mother  the  man  as 
she  mothered  her  boy ;  this  she  did  on  the  strength 
of  being  her  husband's  senior  by  ten  years. 

A  year  after  her  death,  now  four  years  gone,  he 
comforted  himself  with  a  fine  young  squaw  who 
possessed  a  lively  disposition  and  an  exceedingly  un- 
certain temper.  She  was  a  Minnesota  Chippewa 
who  with  her  father,  Long  John,  had  come  for  a 
summer's  visit  with  her  relatives  among  the  Crees 
across  the  border.  She  had  borne  him  two  children. 

To  this  squaw  he  had  left  in  trust  the  children, 
his  stepson,  the  roomy  hut,  his  roomier  shed,  his 
horse,  one  mule,  and  varied  collection  of  livestock, 
until  he  should  have  returned  from  his  annual  trading 
trip.  Generally  he  was  absent  three  months.  But 
this  time  he  left  the  Turtle  Mountain  region  early  in 
September,  and  it  was  now  the  first  of  June.  He  had 
been  repairing  saddles  at  the  fort  for  the  last  two 
months  in  return  for  the  care  given  to  him  and  the 
boy  during  their  long  sickness.  He  was  given  a 
broken  cavalry  mount  to  carry  them  home  across 
the  plains. 

He  was  pondering  seriously,  and  in  considerable 
confusion  of  mind,  this  matter  of  his  long  absence 
when,  having  left  the  Souris  on  its  northward  course, 
he  entered  the  country  of  the  Turtle  Mountains. 

He  knew  Jane  —  so  he  called  her  —  was  a  good 
squaw  to  him;  no  doubt  about  that.  He  had  a 
degree  of  affection  for  her  and  was  proud  of  her  as 
the  mother  of  his  children.  She  pulled  hard  on  the 
bits  at  times,  but  he  had  never  let  her  feel  them  — 
not  he.  It  was  so  much  easier,  so  much  more  con- 
ducive to  his  comfort  and  peace  of  mind  just  to  take 


The  Boy  27 

the  outside  of  the  hut  for  a  while  —  for  an  hour,  a 
day,  a  week,  or  month;  to  sleep  in  the  shed  on  the 
sweet-smelling  hay  with  his  horse  for  companion ;  to 
go  fishing  up  north  on  the  lakes  with  Colin  Me  Gillie, 
or  amble  off  alone  on  his  one  mule  to  a  distant  trading 
post,  and  return  laden  with  some  durable  saddle 
leather  and  gifts  acceptable  to  Jane :  a  woolen  petti- 
coat of  naming  scarlet,  a  necklace  of  cairngorm  beads, 
a  feather,  to  match  the  petticoat,  on  a  straw  hat  of  the 
latest  fashion  —  so  easy  all  this,  and  so  comfortable. 

But  nine  months  of  absence  ?    He  was  approaching 
his  home  with  some  doubts  as  to  his  reception. 
2 

It  was  an  abrupt  entrance  into  Paradise  that  the 
small  boy,  Bob  Collamore,  made  when  the  tired 
horse  that  bore  him  began  to  climb  the  foothills  of 
the  Turtle  Mountain  country.  He  never  forgot  it. 

All  his  life  long  with  the  coming  of  the  days  of  a 
new  June,  he  returned  in  memory  to  that  wonder- 
journey  through  this  stretch  of  green  rolling  slopes, 
clear  lakes,  little  streams,  meadows,  and  broad- 
leaved  forests  —  a  charmed  country  that  beginning 
in  North  Dakota  extends  across  the  border  into- 
Canada.  Its  width  from  the  Souris,  or  Mouse,  is 
about  eighty  miles.  The  whole  region  rises  from 
out  the  Dakota  plains  like  a  natural  citadel. 

He  never  forgot  that  June  sky  or  its  deep  intense 
blue  which  domed  his  Paradise  and  was  reflected  in 
the  crystal  clear  lake  waters.  After  twenty  years  he 
could  recount  accurately  the  specimens  of  shy  wild 
life  in  the  forest  he  had  encountered  on  that  journey 
in  June  which  brought  him,  at  last,  into  his  heritage. 

The  saddle-maker  was  a  good  guide  and  the  boy's 
enthusiasm  pleased  him.  His  many  questions  di- 


28  Out  of  the  Silences 

verted  him  from  too  prolonged  and  anxious  thought 
of  the  morrow  —  and  his  squaw.  It  was  the  last 
day  of  their  long  trip  northward  over  the  Dakota 
plains  and  through  this  high  region.  It  was  their 
last  night  in  the  open.  Sitting  before  their  small 
campfire  the  boy  began  to  chatter.  The  saddle- 
maker  encouraged  him,  for  he  had  proved  himself 
good  company  during  the  last  two  weeks  they  had 
passed  together  on  the  one  horse's  back. 

"An'  you  promised,  honest  Injun,  you'd  let  me 
earn  a  pony  too,  didn't  you  — ?"  He  hesitated  as  to 
what  he  should  call  the  saddle-maker;  thus  far  he 
had  avoided  any  name. 

"Honest  Injun,  I  did.  S'posin'  ye  call  me  Plunket, 
just  plain  Plunket,  Son?  That's  as  good  a  name  as 
any,  an'  it's  mine." 

"Then  your  whole  name's  Bill  Plunket?" 

"The  same." 

"I  like  Plunket.  How  did  you  say  I  was  goin'  to 
earn  my  pony?" 

"Didn't  say;  't  ain't  safe  sayin'  wot  I'll  do  or 
wot  I  ain't  goin'  to  do  —  not  just  at  present."  He 
spoke  solemnly,  for  his  thoughts  reverted  at  once  to 
Jane.  How  would  she  take  it?  What  would  she 
say  to  another  addition  to  the  family,  and  he  the 
son  of  a  white  man  ? 

"When  can  I  begin?" 

"I  dunno,  Son,  I  dunno;  I've  got  to  think  it  out. 
But  ye'll  sure  have  the  beast  — mind  that." 

"An'  a  dog?" 

"In  course  —  a  dog.  Ye  wouldn't  be  more'n  half 
a  boy  'thout  a  dog." 

"What  kind?" 

"Can't  tell  ye  that  now.    Wait  till  ye  see  my 


The  Boy  29 

kennel."  He  smiled  to  himself  at  the  vision  called 
up  by  that  word.  Each  of  his  half-Indian  babies 
possessed  two  puppies.  McGillie,  as  he  called  his 
stepson,  was  the  proud  owner  of  three  collies.  He, 
himself,  had  two  fox  terriers  and  two  powerful 
mongrels. 

"P'r'aps  McGillie  will  give  me  one  of  his ;  —  collies 
you  said."  Bob  was  already  intimate  with  the 
saddle-maker's  stepson  and  his  two  babies,  Tom 
and  Jerry. 

"  Mebbe ;  I  ain't  sure.  He  sets  a  sight  by  'em— st ! " 
It  was  a  note  of  warning. 

Bob's  short  hair  rose  at  the  roots.  There  was 
audible  above  the  gentle  stirring  of  the  great  crowns 
of  maple  and  sycamore  a  soft  pad,  pad,  on  the  forest 
floor.  The  saddle-maker  reached  for  his  rifle. 

"Lay  low,"  he  commanded  the  boy.  Bob  lay 
flat  on  the  ground.  The  soft  double  tread  came 
nearer.  It  ceased.  Then,  without  warning,  the 
forest  silence  was  broken  by  wild  yelps  and  quick 
sharp  barkings.  Two  powerful  dogs,  half  timber 
wolf,  in  their  devouring  eagerness  to  be  near  their 
long  absent  master  sprang  upon  the  saddle-maker 
with  such  force  as  partly  to  overpower  him.  He 
toppled  half  over. 

"Ye  damned  beasts,"  he  said  gently,  stroking  them 
and  quieting  them  with  the  words.  "Ye  found  me 
out,  hey?  —  Stay  put,  Son,"  he  warned  the  boy; 
"the  beasts  have  found  ye  out  too.  Let  'em  snuff  ye 
all  over,  smell  ye,  nose  ye,  turn  ye  clean  over  if  they 
want  to.  It's  their  way  o'  satisfyin'  theirselves  ye 
ain't  no  stranger  to  me. 

"Easy  there,  easy,"  he  cautioned  the  dogs  who 
were  a  trifle  too  rough  in  their  investigations.  "Ye 


30  Out  of  the  Silences 

can  set  up  now,  Son,  an'  take  notice,  only  don't 
touch  'em ;  just  look  'em  straight  in  the  eye  an'  tell 
'em  to  get  out." 

Bob  sat  up,  with  a  weakened  backbone  however. 
He  did  as  he  was  told  :  looked  the  huge  beasts  tower- 
ing above  him  directly  in  the  eyes  and  spoke  in  a 
low,  quavering  voice : 

"G-get  out." 

The  dogs  stood  irresolute.  One  of  them  flaired  all 
over  the  boy's  head;  the  other  sat  down  on  her 
haunches  so  near  that  her  hot  breath  made  Bob 
feel  cold.  In  neither  of  them  was  there  any  evidence 
of  obedience.  This  spirit  of  insubordination  put 
Bob  on  his  mettle. 

"Get  out."     He  spoke  loudly,  firmly. 

The  dog  ceased  snuffing;  he,  too,  sat  down  on  his 
haunches.  The  two  stared  impudently  at  the 
intruder.  Bob  felt  the  challenge;  it  made  him 
furious.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  shaking  his  fist 
under  their  very  noses  shouted  with  shrill  vehemence  : 

"You  damned  beasts,  get  out!" 

It  was  his  final  effort  and  his  first  half -oath;  but 
he  was  only  quoting  the  saddle-maker. 

To  the  child's  amazement  the  two  dogs  turned 
themselves  about  and  meekly  took  their  place  on 
the  other  side  of  their  master.  Bob  sensed  a  victory 
over  brute  creation.  It  was  his  first. 

Bill  Plunket  grinned  broadly  and  slapped  his  thighs. 
"That's  the  talk  that  does  it,  Son.  Ye'll  do,  ye'll  do. 
Master  'em  first  an'  pet  'em  afterwards.  Ye  won't 
have  no  more  trouble  with  them.  Come  now,  it's 
time  to  turn  in.  We've  got  a  big  day  ahead  of  us 
to-morrow."  He  handed  a  blanket  to  the  child. 

"Will  we  be  home  to-morrow?" 


The  Boy  31 

"Yep."  The  answer  was  too  laconic  to  invite 
further  questioning. 

Bob  took  his  blanket  and  looked  about  for  a 
special  bedding-place  on  the  forest  floor.  A  few 
yards  from  the  campfire,  between  two  large  white 
birches  and  a  poplar,  was  a  little  "bush"  of  ever- 
greens, rare  in  this  locality.  Within  the  clump  was 
an  open  spot  bedded  deep  with  leaves  and  curiously 
hollowed  as  if  it  had  been  the  lair  of  some  wild  animal. 
Bob  announced  his  intention  of  sleeping  there.  He 
crept  in  under  the  low-spreading  branches,  dragging 
his  blanket  after  him  and,  wrapping  himself  in  it, 
settled  into  the  hollow  that  was  as  if  made  for 
him. 

"I've  got  a  bully  bed,"  he  announced,  rolling  over 
on  his  back  to  observe  what  might  be  going  on  in  the 
sky  that  could  be  seen  between  the  birch  crowns 
above  the  opening  of  the  "bush."  It  looked  to  be  a 
little  space,  not  wider  than  the  stretch  of  his  arm ; 
but  ail  the  same  it  was  wonderful. 

The  saddle-maker  made  his  own  preparations  to 
turn  in.  Soon  he,  too,  rolled  himself  in  his  blanket 
and  was  ready  for  sleep.  But  sleep  did  not  come  so 
readily.  He  thought  of  Jane  and  the  various  domestic 
complications  awaiting  him.  They  were  so  near  now, 
only  eighteen  hours  distant,  that  they  loomed  large 
and  forbidding  before  his  night  vision. 

He  was  stretched  out  between  the  fire  and  the 
clump  of  evergreens.  The  dogs  lay  at  his  feet. 
Soon  a  small  voice  made  itself  heard  from  the  "bush"  : 

"I  can  see  two  big  stars  in  the  sky-hole  right  over 
my  head." 

"Mgh." 

Another  five  minutes  of  forest  quiet ;  then : 


32  Out  of  the  Silences 

"Oo  —  ee,  oo  —  ee,  I  say,  Plunket,  a  big  owl  went 
across  the  sky-hole  just  this  minute  —  hear  him?" 

The  saddle-maker  listened.  Sure  enough,  he  heard 
the  flitting  of  the  owl.  He  must  not  encourage  too 
much  conversation. 

"Mgh." 

The  wind  continued  to  move  gently  through  the 
tree  tops.  A  strong  fresh  woodsy  scent  mingled  with 
the  smoke  from  some  charred  sticks  at  the  edge  of 
the  fire.  Somewhere  in  the  forest  a  thrush  awoke  and 
fluted  brokenly  a  dream  note. 

"  What's  that  ?  "    This  from  Bob. 

"A  thrush.     Now  go  to  sleep,  Son;  it's  time." 

"I  will  — •  in  a  minute." 

The  saddle-maker  waited  for  further  developments. 
He  knew  something  of  this  little  human  animal  after 
six  months'  close  companionship.  At  last : 

"Plunket  —  " 

"Mgh." 

"Where's  my  Bunkie-nunc ? " 

The  saddle-maker  could  not  answer  at  once.  For 
four  months  he  had  been  dreading  to  hear  this 
question  from  the  boy.  During  that  week  in  the 
dugout  after  his  uncle's  departure  for  the  fort,  Bob 
had  asked  the  question  almost  hourly,  although 
accepting  the  fact  as  stated  by  the  saddle-maker 
that  he  had  gone  to  the  fort  to  get  a  team  "to  haul 
us  out  o'  this  'ere  hole  ",  as  he  expressed  it.  After 
that  week  there  were  no  more  questions  except  those 
uttered  in  the  delirium  of  fever.  Since  the  boy's 
recovery  he  had  asked  nothing  in  regard  to  his  uncle, 
had  not  once  mentioned  his  name. 

The  saddle-maker  concluded  that  the  fever  had 
burnt  out  that  memory,  destroyed  the  power  of 


The  Boy  33 

remembrance  of  what  had  happened.  He  was  glad 
if  it  were  so;  it  was  merciful;  a  child  should  not 
remember  such  things.  He  felt  far  from  sure  however. 
Now  he  must  face  the  situation.  It  sickened  him. 

"Please  tell  me." 

"Yer  uncle's  gone  on  a  long  trip,  Son." 

"Where?" 

"I  dunno."  Bill  Plunket  swallowed  hard ;  cleared 
his  throat;  fought  with  his  conscience  till  he  was 
weak.  Then  he  spoke  in  a  thickened  voice : 

"Son,  I  can't  lie  to  ye,  an',  by  God,  I  ain't  goin'  to 
try.  Yer  uncle  can't  get  back  from  that  trip  — 
never  — •" 

"Never — "  The  small  voice  from  beneath  the 
evergreens  was  lost  in  a  hard-caught  breath.  The 
saddle-maker  heard  it.  He  winced  at  the  sound. 

"No,  he  can't.    Ye  see  he  — " 

"Why  —  why  not?"  The  voice  was  scarcely 
audible.  The  saddle-maker  took  his  plunge. 

"Ye  see  —  he  took  the  road  us-all's  got  to  take 
sometime,  Son.  He's  —  he's  dead." 

There  was  silence  in  the  "  bush."  There  was  silence 
in  the  forest.  The  wind  ceased  for  a  moment  to 
move  the  leafy  crowns.  Then  came  the  sound  of  a 
strangled  sob.  It  cut  the  saddle-maker  to  the  heart 
but  he  knew  what  was  before  him :  his  duty  to 
the  boy. 

"Son  — "  ;  he  spoke  softly.  There  was  no  answer, 
but  again  he  heard  the  queer  half-strangled  sound 
at  which  one  of  the  dogs  raised  her  head. 

"Son,  yer  uncle  did  the  biggest  thing  a  man,  a 
reel  man,  can  do  —  he  saved  us-all  by  givin'  up  his 
own  life  —  't  wasn't  easy  for  him  —  't  wasn't  easy 
for  me  to  keep  livin'  on  when  I  knowed  I  owed  my 


34  Out  of  the  Silences 

just  livin'  to  him.  Don't  ye  never  ferget,  Son,  he 
gave  up  his  life  for  us-all — " 

He  listened  for  the  sound  that  had  roused  the  dog. 
He  heard  nothing  for  a  moment ;  then  the  convulsive, 
choking,  sobbing  breaths  came  again  to  his  ear, 
smothered  this  time  as  if  the  boy  had  hidden  his  head 
in  his  blanket  to  dull  the  sound. 

The  dog  stirred  uneasily,  sat  up  on  her  haunches, 
listened  intently  in  the  direction  of  the  sound ;  then 
crept  towards  the  "bush." 

The  saddle-maker  bit  his  lip  to  keep  himself  from 
crying.  But  he  knew  his  duty. 

"Son,  the  dog's  comin'  in  to  see  ye  (she'll  comfort 
him,"  he  muttered).  "You  know  what  yer  uncle 
used  to  tell  ye.  'Keep  stiff  upper  lip,  Bob,  stiff 
upper  lip.'"  He  waited  a  full  minute. 

"Yep  — "     The  sound  was  still  muffled. 

"An'  yer  uncle  was  a  man,  Son,  ye  know  that 
now  — " 

"Yep." 

The  dog  crawled  on  her  belly  into  the  "bush." 

"An'  he  was  brave,  I  never  knowed  a  braver;  an' 
ye  know  it  now  — " 

"Yep  — hmf." 

The  saddle-maker  heard  the  sniff  and  knew  that 
the  boy  had  taken  his  head  from  out  the  blanket.  He 
heard  the  dog  settling  herself.  He  sighed  relief  as 
he  waited. 

From  time  to  time  a  muffled  sob  came  from  the 
evergreens,  followed  by  an  uneasy  movement  of  the 
dog.  After  a  time  the  sounds  grew  less  frequent. 
The  wind  was  moving  again  softly  through  the  tree 
tops.  Finally  his  strained  ears  caught  a  slight  noise 
as  of  the  boy's  turning ;  then  came  the  voice : 


The  Boy  35 

"I'm  goin'  to  —  to  keep  —  stiff  upper  lip,  Plunket." 

"Oh,  you  little  cuss, you  little  cuss,"  said  the  saddle- 
maker,  so  gently,  so  lovingly  that  the  boy  was  both 
comforted  and  encouraged. 
.    "An'  I'm  goin'  to  be  —  be  —  like  him." 

"Yer  beginnin'  just  right,  Son,  just  right  —  keep 
right  on  —  keep  right  on  — " 

There  was  a  sound  of  some  rearrangement  of  bodies 
within  the  "bush."  Then  silence. 

The  saddle-maker  watched  throughout  that  night 
—  and  his  night  thoughts  were  not  of  Jane. 

At  break  of  day  he  stepped  softly  to  the  bushes, 
knelt  down  and  looked  in.  The  dog  was  to  all 
appearance  asleep.  Within  her  half  encircling 
paws  lay  Bob  curled  against  her  body.  The  saddle- 
maker  scarcely  breathed ;  but  the  dog  opened  one 
eye,  looked  at  him  intelligently,  closed  it  again  and 
apparently  fell  asleep. 

The  saddle-maker  crept  back  intending  to  snatch 
forty  winks  till  sun-up. 

"AT  HOME" 
i 

Both  man  and  boy  were  so  worn  out  with  the 
unwonted  emotions  of  the  night  that  they  slept  on 
till  aroused  by  the  dogs.  They  began  the  last  lap 
of  their  journey  three  hours  late.  It  was  after  sunset 
when  they  drew  near  the  saddle-maker's  home;  but 
it  was  not  dark  for  in  the  higher  latitudes  the  after- 
light lingers  so  long. 

The  air  was  still.  All  sounds  carried  far.  They 
approached  the  hut  along  a  well  worn  trail  through 
thick  woods.  The  harsh  cry  of  a  night  hawk  sounded 
above  them  in  the  open.  The  dogs  ran  ahead  and 


36  Out  of  the  Silences 

out  of  sight  many  times,  only  to  return,  assure  them- 
selves that  man,  boy,  and  horse  were  still  on  the  move, 
and  be  off  again.  Soon  their  strong  bark  was  heard 
in  the  distance. 

"Most  home,  Son."  The  saddle-maker  spoke 
cheerfully,  but  at  that  moment  the  tone  belied  his 
feelings. 

"Do  you  s'pose  McGillie  an'  the  collies  will  hear 
us?" 

"Mebbe.  He'll  hear  our  dogs  certain.  Hear 
that?" 

There  was  little  need  to  ask,  for  above  the  roar 
of  the  big  dogs  could  be  heard  the  rapid  fire  of  the 
terriers  snapping  and  the  yap-yap  of  the  others.  In  a 
few  minutes  the  huge  mongrels  came  bounding  back, 
raced  by  the  rest.  Behind  them  came  running,  half 
breathless,  Colin  McGillie. 

The  saddle-maker  greeted  him  with  a  slap  on  the 
shoulder  and  a  glad  "How,  Sonny!" 

"P-pa  —  I  th-thought  — I  — " 

"Come,  get  yer  wind  first,  McGillie." 

"I  thought  sure  ye'd  gone  for  good  an'  all,  Pa." 
There  was  a  suspicious  tremor  in  his  voice.  Colin 
was  nearly  fourteen. 

"  Thought  that,  did  ye  ?  I  hadn't  no  idee  o'  playin' 
such  a  low-down  trick  as  that.  Glad  to  see  the  old 
man,  hey?" 

"Glad,  Pa— " 

The  saddle-maker  interrupted  him.  He  felt  he 
must  save  the  situation.  It  would  never  do  for  Bob 
to  think  McGillie  was  a  sissy: 

"Here,  Colin,  these  dogs  are  all  mixed  up  with  my 
legs.  Get  'em  out." 

Colin  yanked  first  one  then  another  of  the  dogs  out 


The  Boy  37 

of  the  saddle-maker's  way  until  he  had  them  well  in 
hand ;  it  was  a  vent  for  his  emotions. 

They  walked  on  together,  the  dogs  heeling  well 
after  their  discipline.  The  saddle-maker  brought 
about  no  introductions  between  the  two  boys ;  he 
wanted  to  restrain  Colin's  abnormal  curiosity  and  to 
give  Bob  time  to  sense  things.  Finally  he  broke 
silence. 

"How's  things  goin'  to  home,  Colin?"  It  was  a 
feeble  question  feebly  put. 

"Ain't  goin'."     Colin  answered  doggedly. 

"Wot'sup?" 

" Jane's  gone—  " 

"  Jane  ?    Where's  she  gone  to  ?  " 

"Dunno." 

"When  did  she  make  her  start?" 

"Last  month;  she'd  a  went  sooner  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  snow."  «% 

"Hard  winter,  hey?" 

"Tumble,  Pa." 

"How's  Tom  an'  Jerry  stood  it?" 

"All  right.     She  took  'em  'long  with  her  too." 

"Took  Tom  an'  Jerry,  did  she?  Well,  ye  can't 
blame  a  mother  for  wantin'  her  babies  'long  with  her, 
can  ye?  Kinder  lonesome  'thout  'em,  hey?" 

"You  bet  —  took  the  puppies  too." 

"Puppies  is  as  plenty  as  blackberries  round  in  the 
mountains.  How'd  she  carry  'em  all  ?  " 

"She  took  the  horse— " 

"Took  my  horse,  did  she?  Well,  this  is  gettin' 
mighty  int'restin'." 

"  —  An'  she  took  the  best  saddle,  the  one  you  an' 
her  used  to  ride  on." 

"Best    saddle  — mm."    The    saddle-maker    was 


38  Out  of  the  Silences 

ruminating  and  spoke  with  exceeding  mildness. 
Colin  confided  weeks  afterwards  to  Bob  that  it  riled 
him. 

"Yup." 

"How  did  Tom  an'  Jerry  ride?" 

"In  them  two  saddle-bags  o'  yourn  —  one  in  each. 
I  had  saw  her  take  'em  when  I  was  layin'  in  the  shed." 

"Layin'  in  the  shed?  How's  that?"  For  the  first 
time  the  saddle-maker's  voice  had  an  edge  to  it. 

"I  slep'  there  all  winter,  an'  I  tell  ye,  Pa,  I  jumped 
on  her  when  I  had  saw  that.  I  swore  at  her  awful, 
but  she  didn't  care  a  darn.  She  fetched  me  a  clip 
'cross  the  jaw  with  a  bridle  strap  —  Gee  !  I  thought 
't  was  broke.  I  got  a  bunch  there  now;  feel — " 

The  saddle-maker  felt.  His  own  feelings  were  of 
anger,  relief,  and  disgust. 

"Mgh."  This  monosyllable  always  acted  with 
the  promptness  and  restraint  of  an  electric  air- 
brake on  McGillie's  conversation.  Bob  had  taken  in 
all  of  this  strange  colloquy  according  to  the  capacity 
of  his  ears  and  years. 

The  procession  moved  on  in  silence  —  the  dogs 
still  heeling.  After  leaving  the  woods  they  crossed  a 
little  clearing,  all  waving  grassland  and  sweet  with 
grassy  smells.  They  drew  up  before  an  unlighted 
hut.  It  was  already  dusk. 

"I'll  bed  the  horse  first.  He's  played  out  for  he's 
carried  double  most  o'  the  time.  This  'ere  is  Bob 
Collamore,  McGillie;  he's  come  to  live  with  us-all. 
He's  come  clear  from  the  Missouri.  He'll  need  some 
showin'  round  to-morrow." 

The  two  boys  felt  there  was  no  use  in  trying  to 
size  each  other  up ;  that  must  wait  for  daylight  and 
the  morrow. 


The  Boy  39 

"You've  got  some  bully  puppies,  McGillie. 
Phmket  said  mebbe  —  only  mebbe,  you  know  — 
you'd  give  me  one."  The  tone  was  wistful,  but  it 
was  not  an  auspicious  opening  for  the  new  acquaint- 
ance. McGillie  loved  his  dogs  as  only  a  boy  who  has 
brought  them  up  from  birth  through  puppyhood  can 
love  them.  Without  replying  to  the  unpleasant  in- 
sinuation of  the  forthcoming  gift,  he  accepted  the 
compliment  implied  in  the  term  "bully." 

"I'm  goin'  to  have  some  more  bimeby.  Mebbe, 
I  dunno,  I'll  let  ye  bring  one  up." 

This  offer  was  generous,  and  Bob  answered  accord- 
ingly : 

"I'd  love  to  bring  up  a  puppy." 

"I  sell  'em,  ye  know." 

Bob  did  not  know,  but  he  had  to  say  something. 

"Oh,  you  do?"  There  was  a  note  of  keen  dis- 
appointment in  the  boy's  voice;  but  he  was  game. 
"Anyway,  Plunket  said  I  could  earn  a  pony  —  of 
my  own  too ;  an'  I  guess  if  I  can  earn  a  pony  I  can 
earn  a  puppy." 

There  was  fine  contempt  in  the  tone  with  which  he 
spoke  the  last  word.  Hearing  it  Colin  McGillie 
suddenly  weakened ;  he  felt,  at  that  moment,  that 
the  unborn  puppies  when  six  months  old  wouldn't 
bring  ten  cents  apiece. 

"Oh,  we  can  make  a  trade  all  right.  What'd 
Pa  say—" 

The  saddle-maker  coming  from  the  shed  interrupted 
him. 

"Where's  the  fodder?"    He  spoke  peremptorily. 

"Ain't  any.     She  took  all  there  was  left." 

"An'  I  s'pose  she  took  Hannah  too?  I  don't  see 
her."  Hannah  was  his  mule. 


40  Out  of  the  Silences 

"Yup,  an'  she  took  all  the  pullets,  an'  the  last 
bag  o'  grain  — " 

"Anything  left?"  There  was  now  sarcasm  in  the 
questions. 

"Not  much.  She  took  the  two  big  blankets, 
an'  the  red  an'  yaller  quilts,  an'  all  her  own  fixin's, 
an'  some  pots  an'  kettles  —  the  big  brass  one 
too." 

"Reg'lar  weddin'  outfit  — Oh,  Lord,  Lord!" 

The  saddle-maker  sat  down  suddenly  among  the 
waving  grass  and  began  to  laugh ;  he  laughed  so  long 
and  so  heartily  that  finally  he  rolled  over  exhausted 
on  his  back.  After  a  long-drawn  hah  of  relief,  he 
sat  up  and  spoke  to  the  boys  who  being  unable  to 
see  any  joke  could  not  join  in  the  laugh,  and  had  to 
content  themselves  with  wondering  at  such  antics  in 
a  man  of  his  years. 

"Boys,  hear  wot  the  old  man  says:  better  not 
get  married;  but  if  ye  do,  let  me  tell  ye  just  one 
thing :  a  woman'll  say  '  wot's  his  is  mine,  an'  wot's 
mine's  my  own',  every  time;  an'  don't  ye  forget  it. 
Now  let's  have  a  fire  and  get  some  feed  to  start 
in  housekeepin'  on.  Son  an'  me  has  some  left 
over." 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  hut  and  striking  a  match 
touched  it  to  a  long  strip  of  birch  bark  he  had  brought 
in  from  the  shed ;  he  dropped  it  into  the  box  stove. 
Me  Gillie  came  in  with  some  wood.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  hut  was  thoroughly  warm,  the  bacon  sizzling  in 
the  pan,  the  compliments  of  a  few  ancient  hens,  — 
some  fresh  eggs  that  Me  Gillie  had  saved,  —  frying 
in  the  fat,  the  kettle  boiling,  and  the  tin  teapot 
doing  its  full  duty.  A  kerosene  lamp  gave  them  light. 
McGillie  assured  his  stepfather  with  considerable 


The  Boy  41 

complacency  that  Jane  had  not  taken  the  oil  can ;  in 
fact  she  couldn't,  he  said,  because  he  had  hidden  it 
in  the  hollow  of  the  big  poplar. 

When  they  had  eaten  to  their  satisfaction,  the 
blankets  were  spread  on  the  floor  and  the  saddle- 
maker  smoked  in  silence  with  McGillie  on  one  side, 
Bob  on  the  other  close  to  his  arm.  The  dogs,  all 
seven  of  them,  were  in  various  attitudes  around  the 
stove.  The  warmth  was  grateful  to  man  and  beast, 
for  the  early  June  nights  on  the  mountain  are  apt  to 
be  unpleasantly  chill. 

Presently  the  saddle-maker,  who  was  lost  in 
thought,  felt  the  lunge  of  a  small  body  against  his 
arm ;  it  was  Bob  tired  out  with  the  excitement  of  the 
new,  and  now  overcome  suddenly  with  sleep.  He 
put  his  arm  around  the  little  lad,  and  lifting  the  boy's 
inert  sleep-filled  body  in  his  arms  laid  the  child 
carefully  on  a  buffalo  robe  in  one  corner  and  covered 
him  with  the  blanket.  The  big  bitch,  remembering 
her  charge  of  the  night  before,  followed  him  to  watch 
proceedings. 

While  he  was  tucking  the  blanket  behind  the  child's 
back,  Bob  roused  up  sufficiently  to  murmur,  "Where's 
the  dog?" 

"Right  here,  Son." 

Bob  half  opened  his  eyes.  Sure  enough  the  dog 
was  there.  He  put  out  his  hand;  the  great  beast 
licked  it,  then  settled  noiselessly  on  the  robe  at  the 
boy's  feet. 

"An'  she's  yourn,  Son,  for  this  world  an'  the  next," 
the  saddle-maker  said  solemnly. 

Bob  smiled  sleepily ;  he  could  not  take  in  the  fact 
of  the  gift ;  he  was  too  far  gone. 

"Good-night,  Plunket." 


42  Out  of  the  Silences 

2 

Bill  Plunket  and  his  stepson  sat  up  for  another 
half  hour.  McGillie  was  curious  about  the  new  boy, 
and  the  saddle-maker  realized  this.  He  felt  it  was 
wise  to  tell  him  just  as  things  had  been  in  the  past 
six  months  that  he  might  not  be  induced,  through 
sheer  curiosity,  to  question  Bob  and  by  so  doing 
unwittingly  open  up  wounds  that  otherwise  might 
have  healed.  He  wanted  to  spare  the  child ;  he 
wanted  him  to  forget  the  past. 

"I  want  ye  to  help  him  to  forget,  Colin.  He's 
been  through  as  much  as  some  men  o'  forty.  He's 
got  grit,  an'  he's  good  comp'ny.  I  want  ye  to  stand 
by  him  through  thick  an'  thin." 

McGillie  winked  hard.  He  was  taking  it  all  in, 
but  his  part  Scotch  inheritance  made  him  unready 
to  cry  halves  with  anybody  at  the  first  go.  The 
saddle-maker  knew  his  ways  and  did  not  press  for 
promises  or  even  assurance  on  his  part.  He  proceeded 
to  do  some  questioning  along  his  line  of  special  thought. 

"McGillie,  Jane  ain't  gone  to  the  mountain  In- 
juns, has  she?  They  ain't  said  no  thin'  'bout  her, 
have  they?" 

"Nope.  I  have  saw  'em  two-three  times  since 
she  went.  They  come  by  the  other  day  with  a  whole 
string  o'  ponies,  but  they  never  said  nothin'  'cept 
Kinni-kinnik's  pa.  He  asked  me  if  I  had  'nough  to 
eat." 

"Did  ye?" 

"Yep.  I  done  some  trappin'  this  winter,  and  that 
kep'  us-all  in  meat.  But  there  warn't  no  shootin', 
the  snow  was  so  deep.  An'  I  had  a  little  meal  and 
rice,  an'  a  peck  o'  dried  berries  Jane  fixed  last  fall  — 
an.'  some  maple  sugar." 


The  Boy  43 

"Ye  done  well,  Sonny,  ye  done  well;  an'  we-all 
will  be  gettin'  to  housekeepin'  reg'lar  soon.  We  can 
get  along  for  a  spell  'thout  Jane." 

Colin  McGillie  nodded  emphatically  although,  like 
Bob,  he  was  overcome  with  sleep.  Seeing  which, 
Bill  Plunket  emptied  his  pipe  and  trod  out  the 
fire. 

"Time  to  turn  in,  McGillie.  Ye  needn't  have 
nothin'  special  on  yer  mind  now  I'm  back ;  —  just 
sleep  it  out." 

McGillie  needed  no  urging,  but  he  asked  one  more 
question  before  he  went  to  sleep : 

"Pa  —  did  ye  mean  what  ye  said  'bout  givin'  that 
boy  yer  dog?" 

"I  sure  did.     Don't  I  gen'rally  mean  what  I  say?" 

"Yup  —  but—  " 

"But  wot?  Out  with  it.  Ye  don't  want  to 
sleep  on  it,  McGillie ;  mebbe  't  wouldn't  set  well  on 
yer  stomach." 

"But  she's  yourn;  ye  think  a  sight  o'  her,  an'  — " 

"An'  wot?" 

"An'  ye  see,  Pa,  seein'  ye  set  so  by  her,  if  ye  don't 
redly  want  ter  give  her  up,  I'll  give  him  one  o'  my 
collies."  It  was  out  at  last. 

"Shut  up,  Colin  McGillie;  go  to  sleep  —  an'  keep 
yer  dog." 

But  how  gentle  his  voice !  So  gentle,  that  Colin 
McGillie  looking  up  at  him  gratefully,  —  for  the 
contemplated  sacrifice  of  his  dog  on  the  altar  of  his 
love  for  his  stepfather  had  cost  him  a  fearsome 
struggle,  —  as  he  bent  over  his  bed  of  skins  and  drew 
the  blanket  over  his  shoulder,  blurted  his  heart  out 
then  and  there: 

"Gosh,  it's  mighty  good  to  get  ye  back,  Pa,  after 


44 


Out  of  the  Silences 


all  Jane's  jawin'.  I  hung  on,  Pa,  I  hung  on  for  dear 
life." 

"I  bet  ye  did,  an'  I'm  mighty  glad  to  be  back,  my 
son."  He  thought  it  not  wise  to  add  "  'thout  Jane's 
jawin'." 

McGillie  appreciated  to  the  full  that  "my  son." 
"  McGillie  "  and  "  Colin  "  were  his  daily  food,  "  Sonny  " 
whenever  the  saddle-maker  returned  from  his  annual 
trips;  but  "my  son"  —  his  stepfather  had  called 
him  that  but  once  before,  on  the  night  after  his 
mother  died.  He  felt  rewarded  for  all  the  trials  of 
the  past  winter.  He  worshipped  the  saddle-maker, 
but  the  Indian  strain  in  him  would  give  that  worship 
no  verbal  expression. 

When  both  boys  and  all  the  dogs  had  been  sleeping 
soundly  for  an  hour  the  saddle-maker  opened  the  door 
of  the  hut  and  stepped  out,  closing  it  behind  him.  He 
wanted  to  be  alone  with  the  night  and  think  out  the 
new  proposition  life  had  laid  so  unexpectedly  before 
hun. 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 
i 

During  the  first  year  in  the  new  environment,  it 
seemed  as  if  Bob's  senses  of  sight,  hearing,  touch 
became  from  day  to  day  almost  abnormally  keen.  It 
was  apparent  to  the  saddle-maker,  at  the  end  of 
those  twelve  months,  that  the  boy  had  acquired  what 
may  best  be  denned  as  a  sixth  sense.  This  extra 
sense  of  acquisitiveness  was  developed  by  his  constant 
association  with  their  Indian  neighbors. 

There  were  not  so  many  of  them  —  a  mere  remnant 
of  the  Crees  that  had  remained  in  this  wilderness  of 
the  Turtle  Mountain.  But  from  time  to  time  they 


The  Boy  45 

were  visited  by  some  of  the  more  northern  Crees, 
famous  Hudson's  Bay  Company  hunters  and  trappers 
from  the  Great  Lakes  country  south  of  the  Saskat- 
chewan delta. 

Now  and  then  a  few  Chippewa,  their  next  of  kin,  — 
and  like  them  "timber  Indians",  —  from  far  away 
Bemidji  and  all  that  region  of  hills,  lakes,  and  pine 
forests  in  Minnesota,  made  pilgrimage  to  their 
old  altars  in  these  mountain  fastnesses,  or  visited  for 
a  month  or  season  with  their  friends  and  relatives 
among  the  Crees. 

Once,  once  only,  it  was  given  to  Bob  Collamore  to 
see  Crees  and  Chippewa,  their  priests  and  sun-lodges, 
—  a  mere  remnant  of  older  days,  —  gathering  from 
all  the  land  between  Hudson's  Bay  and  Sault  Ste. 
Marie,  in  order  to  hold  the  famous  Sun  Ceremony  in 
this,  their  temple  in  the  wilderness. 

Once,  only  once,  he  was  privileged  to  see"  the  swing- 
ing lope  of  the  great  war  bands,  the  gleam  of  lance 
and  eagle-plume  flutter  ",  filing  down  its  slopes ;  and 
once  to  hear  their  far-off  chants  —  only  once.  But 
the  wonders  of  that  day,  the  sound  of  those  chants  — 
he  could  relive  and  hear  them  whenever  he  closed 
his  eyes  to  dream  back  to  the  tune  when  the  fading 
glory  of  the  old  Indians'  days  and  ways,  like  the 
autumn  leafage  of  their  own  north  country,  shone 
with  a  new  splendor  or  ever  their  final  vanishing 
before  the  killing  frost  of  modernity. 

2 

Just  how  or  when  Bob's  intimacy  with  their  red 
neighbors  had  come  about  the  saddle-maker  failed 
to  comprehend.  Looking  back  over  the  first  few 
months  of  the  boy's  life  with  him  in  the  mountains, 
he  could  not  place  his  finger  on  any  special  event,  on 


46  Out  of  the  Silences 

any  one  date  that  afforded  him  any  explanation  of 
the  extraordinarily  friendly  relations  which  were  so 
soon  established  between  the  Indians  and  the  boy. 

For  two  weeks  after  Plunket's  return  to  his  squaw- 
less  hut,  they  avoided  being  seen  in  its  vicinity. 
Knowing  them,  their  ways,  and  outlook  on  the  daily 
happenings  of  life,  he  understood  their  attitude  of 
mind  towards  him  in  his  peculiar  marital  circum- 
stances, and  their  consequent  avoidance  of  him  —  a 
white  man  whose  squaw  had  ignominiously  left  him. 
Had  he  sought  and  found  her,  compelled  her  by 
threats  and  force  and  a  good  drubbing  to  return  to 
him,  they  would  have  respected  him,  come  to  chat 
and  gossip  with  him  as  was  their  wont.  Although 
they  did  not  allow  themselves  to  be  seen  or  heard, 
the  saddle-maker  knew  they  were  aware  of  his  every 
move,  that  they  had  also  seen  the  coming  of  the  boy. 
And,  knowing  that  they  knew  he  sat  alone,  working 
as  usual,  passive  in  the  face  of  the  fact  that  his  good 
horse  and  mule  had  been  taken  from  him,  patient 
under  such  severe  petticoat  discipline,  he  also  knew 
that  in  their  Indian  hearts  they  despised  him  whom 
they  called  friend. 

He  knew  all  this ;  but  that  first  night  of  his  home- 
coming he  laid  out  his  present  and  future  line  of 
action  so  far  as  Jane  was  concerned ;  thought  it  out 
carefully  in  detail,  and  decided  to  hold  it  for  so  long 
as  he  might  see  fit.  Of  course  he  knew  that  by  this 
time  every  Indian  in  the  Turtle  Mountains  was 
aware  of  the  trick  Jane  had  played  on  him,  —  their 
masterful  system  of  communication,  that  approaches 
wireless  telegraphy,  was  well  known  to  him,  —  that 
they  knew  whither  she  had  gone  and  where  she  was ; 
but  he  purposed  asking  no  questions.  He  was,  in  a 


The  Boy  47 

manner,  Indian  bred :  he  could  wait,  he  had  a  talent 
for  that;  he  could  also  match  them  at  their  own 
game. 

But  the  boys  could  have  told  him  tales !  Tales 
that  would  have  enlightened  him  on  the  subject  of 
Bob's  friendliness  with  their  Indian  neighbors.  Oh, 
yes,  they  could  have  told ;  only,  being  boys,  they  did 
not  choose  to  give  themselves  and  their  secrets  away 
to  anyone. 

3 

The  boy's  curiosity  to  see  some  real  Indians  was 
boundless;  up  to  this  time  he  had  seen  only  the 
scouts,  much  like  other  men,  at  the  fort.  But  the 
saddle-maker  had  forbidden  both  boys  to  go  to  the 
villages  or  camps.  He  was  biding  his  time,  and  the 
boys  might  bring  his  plans  through  heedlessness  to 
naught. 

"Don't  ye  have  no  truck  with  'em,  boys.  Keep 
to  yerselves  an'  they'll  keep  their  own  trail." 

The  saddle-maker  as  he  spoke  was  adjusting  a  small 
yoke,  exactly  like  a  sap-bucket  yoke,  to  Bob's  thin 
shoulders.  He  made  it  in  order  that  the  boy  accord- 
ing to  his  strength  might  help  McGillie  fetch  water 
from  the  spring.  Formerly  the  mule  performed  this 
service.  Now  that  he  was  muleless  and  the  cavalry 
horse  from  the  fort  incapacitated  for  the  steep  trails, 
the  boys  were  to  be  water-carriers,  at  least,  for  a 
time. 

"But,  Pa,  what'll  we  do  if  we  sight  'em?  They 
won't  know  what  us-all  means  not  speakin'  to  'em; 
they'll  be  madder'n  hornets." 

"Ye  do  wot  I  tell  ye :  lay  low  an'  let  'em  alone.  Ye 
hear?" 

"Yup,  but—" 


48  Out  of  the  Silences 

"None  o'  yer  'huts',  Colin;   't  ain't  no  use  to  but 
in  with  yer  'huts'  when  the  old  man  says  the  word 
—  is  it  now?" 
"Nope,  but  Pa— " 

"Get  on  with  ye,"  said  the  saddle-maker  gently 
but  very  firmly. 

McGillie  put  on  his  yoke.  "'T  ain't  no  use,"  he 
muttered  as  he  strode  away,  pails  swinging  and 
rattling,  "if  Pa  once  gets  set,  he's  set;  pitch  pine  on 
yer  leggins  ain't  in  it  with  him."  He  flung  along 
rapidly,  still  muttering.  Bob  trotted  on  behind 
jingling  his  two  small  pails  in  imitation  of  McGillie. 
The  dogs  were  not  allowed  to  go  with  them  because 
they  were  liable  to  rile  the  water. 

After  sprinting  half  a  mile  in  this  mood,  McGillie 
felt  better,  also  the  need  of  companionship.  He 
looked  around  for  Bob  who  was  some  distance  behind 
and  nearly  winded.  He  halted. 

"Got  yer  wind,  Bob?" 

"  I've  —  hah  —  I've  got  it  —  hah  —  " 

McGillie  smiled  in  a  superior  way  at  such  softness. 

"This  ain't  nothin' ;  wait  till  ye  have  to  go  fifteen 
miles  winters  lookin'  after  yer  traps." 

"How  far  is  it  to  the  spring  now?" 

"'Bout  half  a  mile." 

"  It'll  be  dark  'fore  we  get  back,  won't  it  ?  "  It  was 
Bob's  first  trip  to  the  spring. 

"Scairt?"  McGillie's  tone  was  not  acceptable  to 
Bob. 

"Scairt  o'  wot?"  His  tone  was  loud  and  defiant. 
The  boy  was  falling  into  the  speech  of  his  two 
friends. 

"Oh,  things—" 

"What  things?" 


The  Boy  49 

"Injuns,  mebbe;  mebbe  wild  cats.  I  have  saw  a 
bear  close  to  the  spring  once." 

A  twig  snapped;  Bob  jumped.  Fortunately 
McGillie's  head  was  turned  away  at  that  moment. 

The  long  light  of  the  summer  solstice  evening 
permeated  the  darkening  woods  that  were  filled  with 
song  of  thrush,  and  vireo,  of  oriole  and  robin.  The 
boys  had  started  late  because  the  heat  of  the  day  had 
been  so  great.  Now  and  then  a  breath  of  air,  that 
had  lingered  in  some  draughtless  forest  pocket, 
purled  out  upon  them,  bringing  with  it  the  pungent 
aroma  of  the  woods. 

"When  does  the  trail  to  the  spring  begin?"  was 
Bob's  next  query. 

"Piece  ahead;  it's  steep,  but  I'll  trail  ye." 

"I'll  trail  myself,"  muttered  Bob. 

In  a  few  minutes  McGillie  turned  to  the  left  and 
into  the  spring  trail.  It  followed  the  steep  slope  of 
the  hillside ;  it  was  narrow  but  well  worn.  On  each 
side  was  a  dense  coppice  of  scrub  oaks. 

"It  ain't  so  awful  steep,"  said  Bob,  slipping  at 
that  moment  on  a  loose  piece  of  rock. 

"Kick  that  out  to  one  side ;  that's  the  way  men  do 
on  the  trail."  McGillie  spoke  carelessly. 

Bob  stopped  to  kick,  and  kicked  so  mightily  that 
his  moccasinned  toes  felt  bruised  and  unjointed,  espe- 
cially his  big  one.  He  bit  his  lip,  jack-knifed  his  body, 
and  with  both  hands  nursed  his  toes  over  his  left  knee. 

McGillie  snickered.  "That'll  learn  ye  not  to  kick 
rocks  with  moccasins,  Softy." 

It  was  too  much.  Suddenly  Bob  punched  him 
one  in  the  back.  McGillie  turned  on  him.  At  that 
moment  both  boys  caught  the  muffled  sound  of  hoofs 
above  them  on  the  main  trail. 


50  Out  of  the  Silences 

"Injuns  !"  whispered  McGillie  in  a  sepulchral  tone, 
simulating  terror. 

Bob  could  think  of  nothing  to  say  but  "By  gosh !" 
At  least,  it  sounded  brave  and  might  deceive  McGillie. 

"Get  into  the  bush,  an'  don't  ye  make  a  noise  with 
them  pails  on  yer  life,"  was  McGillie's  next  order 
carried  out  promptly  and  effectively  by  Bob,  except 
for  the  pails.  He  forgot  to  remove  his  yoke  as  he 
dashed  into  the  bush.  McGillie  would  not  caution 
him  about  it  for  he  felt  he  owed  "Softy"  one  for 
that  punch  in  his  back.  He  meant  to  scare  him  blue 
with  the  Indians,  and  then  play  the  rescuer  in  a 
grand  manner.  After  noiselessly  disentangling  the 
yoke  and  pails,  he  crawled  in  after  him. 

"Where  are  they?"  whispered  Bob. 

"Up  above  on  the  big  trail." 

"Will  they  come  down  here?" 

"'Course,  Greeny;  to  water  their  ponies;  there's 
dozens  o'  'em." 

"Dozens?  Are,  are  they  —  I  mean  the  Indians  — • 
awful  fierce?" 

McGillie  suppressed  a  laugh.  "Most  o'  'em  — 
but  these  ain't.  I'd  go  out  and  talk  to  'em,  only  I 
daren't  aicer  what  Pa  said." 

"Can  you  talk  English  with  'em?" 

"Wot  yer  givin'  me?    They  talk  Injun." 

So  McGillie  could  talk  "Injun."  This  fact  im- 
pressed Bob ;  he  determined  to  learn  that  language. 
He  was  not  to  be  outdone  by  Colin  McGillie ! 

For  the  moment  all  was  quiet  above  them ;  only 
the  birds  were  singing  as  if  mad  with  the  midsummer 
joy.  For  a  moment  Bob  forgot  the  Indians;  he 
was  plotting  revenge.  He  owed  McGillie  "another" 
for  calling  him  "Greeny."  He  made  up  his  mind  if 


The  Boy  51 

all  went  well  to  give  McGillie  a  scare  he  wouldn't 
get  over  before  winter.  His  own  gocseflesh  was 
gradually  subsiding. 

"I  guess  you  can't  fool  with  them  much,  can  you?" 
Bob's  whisper  was  very  low.  McGillie  took  the  bait 
at  once. 

"Wot  d'ye  know  'bout  'em!  They're  chock  full 
o'  kinks  an'  fun  like  us-all.  Injuns  have  jokes  like 
we-all  do.  I've  heard  'em  laughin'  their  heads  off 
most  —  Shut  up,"  he  whispered  suddenly,  forgetting 
he  was  spokesman,  "an'  watch  out." 

It  was  dusk  among  the  bushes  but  twilight  on  the 
trail.  They  heard  the  ponies  entering  it. 

It  was  one  of  the  big  events  as  it  was  also  the 
keenest  disappointment  in  Bob's  short  life  —  that 
first  sight  of  "real"  Indians.  He  had  pictured 
them,  like  all  children  of  vivid  imagination,  as 
braves  in  war  paint,  and  war  bonnets,  with,  possibly, 
a  scalp  or  two  for  belt  and  ornament.  The  more 
suggestively  awful  to  the  child-mind  is  always  the 
more  fascinating  and  alluring. 

"Here  they  come;  lay  low,"  whispered  McGillie. 

Shambling  down  the  steep  trail  came  the  ponies, 
eight  or  more.  The  Indians  sat  them  carelessly, 
limbs,  shoulders,  heads  relaxed,  scenting  no  lurking 
danger,  at  peace  with  themselves  and  the  world  in 
the  refreshing  cool  of  the  evening.  They  lopped  up 
and  down  as  if  they  were  a  corporate  part  of  their 
ponies'  anatomy  —  a  set  of  ill-clad,  unkempt,  inno- 
cent, dirty  men.  Riding  so  hi  silence,  taking  their 
ease,  they  looked  to  be  half  asleep. 

Suddenly  into  their  twilight  meditations,  into  the 
midst  of  their  ponies'  legs,  shot  one  after  the  other, 
with  banging  clang  and  clatter,  Bob's  two  tin  pails. 


52  Out  of  the  Silences 

There  followed  rearing  and  bucking,  frantic  side- 
stepping into  the  coppice,  a  crowding  of  terrified 
bodies,  bewilderment  for  a  second  on  the  part  of  the 
Indians,  confusion  of  man  and  beast  in  the  indefinite 
twilight,  yells,  imprecations,  spurts  of  tin-pail 
resonance  as  the  successive  hoofs  madly  spurned  the 
rolling  unseen  pails ;  then  terrified  snorts,  shouts,  a 
wild  switching  of  tails  —  the  stampede !  The  whole 
cavalcade  bolted  and  tore  madly  down  the  hill.  On 
they  ran,  galloped,  leaped,  trying  to  pass  one  another 
by  twos  and  threes  on  the  narrow  trail  —  stumbling, 
clattering. 

The  troop  disappeared.  From  a  distance  came  a 
faint  outcry.  The  Indians  had  been  routed  by  what 
they  knew  not. 

Me  Gillie,  emerging  from  his  covert,  picked  up  a 
few  yards  down  the  trail  a  battered  tin  pail.  Bob 
crawled  out  to  look  about  him. 

"Wot  in  thunder  did  ye  do  that  for?"  McGillie 
appeared  to  be  dumfounded. 

"I  wanted  to  see  if  they  could  take  a  joke,"  said 
Bob  innocently. 

They  picked  up  their  yokes  and  cautiously  made 
their  way  down  to  the  spring  where  they  found  the 
other  pail  intact.  No  Indians  in  sight.  McGillie 
filled  the  three  pails  and  put  stones  in  the  battered 
one  in  order  to  balance  Bob.  In  silence  they  climbed 
the  hill. 

It  was  not  until  they  had  made  three  fourths  of  their 
way  home,  still  in  silence,  that  McGillie  saw  through 
the  joke.  Suddenly  he  set  down  his  pails;  he  had 
seen  through  it  at  last  and  what  he  saw  proved  too 
much  for  him.  He  rolled  over  and  over  on  the  ground, 
laughing  till  his  jaws  and  stomach  ached.  Bob 


The  Boy  53 

smiled  in  the  dark  and  kicked  his  heels  in  perfect 
enjoyment  of  his  success. 

Me  Gillie  arrived  at  the  hut  in  a  weakened  condition 
but  carried  in  the  water.  Bob  hid  the  battered  pail 
beneath  the  underpinning  of  the  shed. 

That  evening  when  the  saddle-maker  had  gone  out 
for  his  bedtime  smoke,  McGillie  whispered  to  Bob : 

"Say,  Bob—" 

"What?" 

"I  won't  never  call  you  Softy  again,  honest  Injun." 

"You'd  better  not.  —  How's  your  back  feel,  Mc- 
Gillie?" 

"All  right."  Then:  "Better  not  let  Pa  know 
anything  'bout  this  scrape — " 

"Never,"  said  Bob  firmly. 

4^ 

A  few  weeks  afterwards  it  was  known  among  the 
Indians  of  the  village  to  the  south,  and  the  more 
distant  one  to  the  north,  that  Kinni-kinnik's  father 
and  his  chums  had  been  put  to  rout  by  the  white  man's 
child.  Often  of  an  evening,  about  that  time,  in  the 
various  tepees,  or  among  the  groups  around  smoulder- 
ing campfires,  might  have  been  heard  the  sound  of 
hearty  laughter,  loud  guffaws,  the  cackle  of  children, 
the  merry  chatter  of  squaws  —  the  story  of  Kinni- 
kinnik's  father  and  the  Little  Owl,  as  the  men  had 
already  christened  Bob  because  of  his  having  been,  un- 
seen but  seeing,  at  twilight  in  the  bush,  was  being  told 
with  great  gusto  by  one  or  another  of  the  routed  ones. 

It  followed  naturally  enough  that  those  who  heard 
of  this  exploit  wanted  to  see  the  originator.  Hence 
the  Indians'  visits  to  the  saddle-maker's  were  resumed, 
Little  Owl's  friends  multiplied  rapidly,  and  the 
embargo  on  the  boys'  return  visits  was  removed. 


54  Out  of  the  Silences 

KlNNI-KINNIK 

I 

It  was  love  at  sight,  Bob's  first  meeting  with 
Kinni-kinnik.  She  was  called  that  because  once, 
when  she  was  a  mere  baby  and  just  trying  her  un- 
steady feet,  her  grandfather,  the  medicine-man,  to 
his  great  delight  had  found  her  in  his  tepee  sucking 
away  at  his  ceremonial  pipe.  And  finding  her  so 
engaged,  he  nicknamed  her  then  and  there  after  the 
delicate  inner  cortex  of  the  red  willow  which  of  old 
he  and  his  tribe  used  to  smoke  before  tobacco  was 
abundant.  Her  real  name,  however,  was  Osa- 
mequon,  betokening  something  of  the  grace  of  a 
little  feather. 

It  was   McGillie   who  was   responsible   for   the 
acquaintance. 

Bob  had  been  thinking  hard  for  a  month  as  to  ways 
and  means  by  which  he  might  earn  an  old  rifle  that 
McGillie  had  discarded  when  his  stepfather  gave 
him  a  new  one,  just  before  setting  out  on  his  disastrous 
trading-trip.  In  many  of  his  characteristics  McGillie 
was  more  Scotch  than  Indian.  To  what  was  his  he 
held  on  like  grim  death,  and  nothing  short  of  a  trade 
could  induce  him  to  part  with  a  possession.  The 
old  rifle  was  his,  and  he  had  no  idea  of  giving  it  to  Bob. 

The  boy  so  longed  for  its  possession  that  he  tor- 
mented McGillie  by  plying  him  with  questions  about 
the  weapon,  and  so  persistently  day  after  day,  that  in 
desperation  McGillie  set  his  slow-moving  wits  at 
work  to  formulate  some  scheme  by  which  he  might 
part  with  the  gun  on  the  basis  of  a  good  trade.  When 
he  failed  to  solve  the  problem  satisfactorily  he  con- 
sulted the  saddle-maker. 

"Ye  see,  Pa,  it  ain't  as  if  he  could  do  things.     He's 


The  Boy  55 

soft  —  don't  know  enough  to  take  up  a  skunk  by  the 
tail.  But  he  pesters  me  tumble,  Pa;  kinder  bores 
in  under  yer  skin  like  a  sheep-tick.  If  I  have  to  stand 
it  much  longer  I'll  sure  be  plumb  loco.  Now  if  he 
could  do  somp'in',  mebbe  I  could  trade  —  make  him 
earn  it,  ye  know.  But  wot  can  he  do?" 

"He  can  talk,  Colin." 

"Ye  bet  he  can."  McGillie's  assent  was  so  solemn 
that  a  broad  smile  deepened  the  crows'  feet  about 
Plunket's  eyes.  "But  I  ain't  goin'  to  let  him  talk 
me  into  givin'  him  my  rifle,  not  by  a  long  shot." 

"An'  he  can  read  — " 

"Bet  he  can,"  McGillie  nodded  emphatically. 
"He  can  read  the  Book.  Say,  Pa,  it's  mighty 
int'restin'  hearin'  'bout  them  tribes  an'  their  wars,  an* 
their  settin'  up  altars  an'  killin'  beasts  for  sacrifices, 
an'  runnin'  a  he-goat  out  o'  their  camps  thinkin' 
he's  carryin'  their  sins  off  with  him.  They  fit  awful 
too  —  worse'n  the  Injuns  any  day." 

"It's  just  as  ye  say,  Colin:  mighty  int'restin' 
readin'.  Ye  see,  the  Book  is  wise,  an'  the  boy  that 
reads  it  ain't  a  fool." 

"Not  on  yer  life!"  McGillie  spoke  almost  with 
enthusiasm. 

"An'  he  can  write  too;  makes  his  J's  straight  as  a 
gun  barrel  an'  crosses  'em  like  a  crossbar,  dots  his 
i's  clear  an'  round  like  a  bull's  eye  on  a  target,  an' 
twists  his  g's  with  a  reg'lar  round-up  loop.  Just 
let  him  get  hold  of  a  rifle  an'  a  pony,  an'  he'll  go  the 
whole  figger  —  an'  some  more." 

"Gee,  I  wish  I  could  write  like  he  does;  then  I 
could  make  up  the  letters  for  the  Injuns  they  send  to 
the  traders  and  agents ;  they  pay  good  for  'em." 

"I  wish  ye  could,  Colin.     I  ain't  no  learnin'  that- 


56  Out  of  the  Silences 

away,  so  I  ain't  been  able  to  help  ye  to  wot  folks 
call  eddication;  but  he  could." 

The  saddle-maker  knew  naught  of  the  modern 
science  of  "suggestion",  but  he  had  practical  working 
knowledge  with  men  and  animals  of  what  a  thought 
can  accomplish  if  expressed  suggestively,  either  in 
word  or  action,  at  the  fit  moment  to  man  or  beast. 
Knowing  this,  he  waited  for  his  words  to  get  beneath 
the  surface. 

Shortly  an  illuminating  thought  showed  in  Mc- 
Gillie's  pale  blue  eyes.  He  spoke  eagerly : 

"I  say,  Pa,  I've  got  it." 

"  Got  wot?" 

"How  I  can  trade  with  Bob  for  that  rifle.  Ye 
s-s-see,  I-I  c-can't  — " 

"Take  it  easy,  Colin,"  said  the  saddle-maker  kindly, 
for  the  unwonted  excitation  of  McGillie's  brain- 
matter  had  caused  his  childhood's  weakness  to  re- 
appear in  full  form.  "Ye've  trapped  an  idea,  and 
it  ain't  goin'  to  get  away  from  ye.  Try  again." 

Me  Gillie  obediently  drew  a  long  breath,  — following 
a  method  the  saddle-maker  with  much  patience  had 
taught  him  in  order  that  he  might  overcome  the 
physical  handicap  in  speech,  —  and  began  again,  but 
very  slowly,  carrying  all  he  wished  to  say  in  the  one 
exhalation : 

"I  can't  write,  an'  I  can't  read  only  little  words; 
an'  if  he'll  learn  me  how  to  write  an'  read  in  that 
Book,  —  it's  got  a  heap  o'  words  'bout  lots  o'  things, 
—  I  can  write  for  the  Injuns  an'  get  pay  for  it." 

"That's  wot  I  was  thinkin'  myself,  Colin—" 

"Why  didn't  ye  tell  me  then?" 

Bill  Plunket  smiled  indulgently  at  his  stepson's 
indignant  protest.  He  knew,  as  he  had  said  once 


The  Boy  57 

to  the  boy's  mother,  that  McGillie  would  never  set 
the  river  afire ;  but  for  all  that  he  was  a  fine  lad. 
For  years  his  stepfather  had  used  his  own  unlearned 
method  in  developing  the  slow-moving  mind,  so 
inducing  it  to  depend  on  itself.  As  a  result  there 
was,  of  his  age,  no  keener  eye,  no  better  trapper,  no 
surer  shot,  among  all  Plunket's  acquaintance  in  the 
mountains  and  on  the  plains.  He  answered  the  boy 
accordingly. 

"Thought  ye'd  work  it  out  for  yerself,  McGillie, 
if  I  let  ye  chew  on  it  long  enough." 

"How  long  d'  ye  s'pose  it'll  be  'fore  I  can  write 
letters  for  the  Injuns?" 

"I  dunno;   a  year,  mebbe — " 

"A  year!"  There  was  both  disgust  and  dis- 
appointment in  McGillie's  voice.  "He  won't  wait  no 
year  for  that  rifle,  Pa." 

"That's  wot  I  was  thinkin'.  Mebbe  ye  can  trade 
with  him  on  wot  they  call  the  instalment  plan." 

"Wot's  that?" 

"Hand  over  the  rifle  to  him  now  —  this  very  day  — 
an'  ye'll  be  rid  of  the  pesterin'.  Let  him  use  it. 
Learn  him  to  shoot,  an'  shoot  straight.  Let  the 
boy  have  the  good  of  it  while  he  wants  it  so  bad. 
An'  make  a  bargain  with  him  that  he'll  give  ye  writin' 
lessons  twice  a  week,  an'  teach  ye  readin'  every  day 
ye're  to  home.  How's  that  ?  I'll  witness  the  trade." 

"That's  all  right.     I'll  go  an'  clean  it  for  him." 

The    plan    worked,    better    even    than    McGillie 
anticipated  —  better,  that  is,  for  Bob. 
2 

For  the  next  few  days  Bob  was  not  parted  in  the 
flesh  from  his  rifle.  It  was  his  second  possession. 
As  for  his  first,  the  big  bitch,  she  was  always  with  him. 


58  Out  of  the  Silences 

McGillie's  stolid  nerves  became  at  last  slightly  af- 
fected by  Bob's  complete  absorption  in  his  weapon 
to  the  consequent  ignoring  of  himself,  as  well  as  by 
the  aimless  and  endless  shooting  and  banging  at  an 
improvised  target  behind  the  hut.  In  consequence  he 
proposed  to  the  saddle-maker  that  if  he  would  lend  him 
the  horse,  he  could  take  the  boy  with  him  along  the 
north  trail  to  the  Indian  village,  eight  miles  distant, 
and,  on  the  way,  let  him  try  out  his  gun  on  something 
real  if  only  a  stump.  The  saddle-maker  promptly  gave 
permission.  He  knew  the  embargo  on  visiting  the 
Indians  was  irksome  to  Me  Gillie — for  they  were 
friends — 'and  breeding  an  inordinate  curiosity  in 
Bob. 

"I'd  trust  him  with  you,  McGillie,  anywhere  in  the 
mountains;  but,"  he  added  with  a  knowing  twinkle 
in  his  eye,  "I  dunno  as  I  can  trust  ye  with  him.  Hear 
to  me:  let  him  do  the  trailing,  McGillie,  that 
rifle  is  liable  of  a  sudden  to  point  most  all  ways. 
Ye  hear  wot  I  say?" 

McGillie  promised  extreme  caution.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  he  went  so  far  in  this  direction  that,  all  un- 
known to  Bob,  he  emptied  the  rifle  of  its  contents 
before  starting  out.  .  .  . 

"I  wish  I  could  speak  Injun  like  you,"  said  Bob 
discontentedly.  They  were  nearing  the  few  tepees 
and  huts  dignified  by  the  name  of  village. 

"Ye'll  learn  it  hearin'  'em." 

"What  do  I  say  when  I  see  'em?" 

"Say  'How.'" 

"How,"  said  Bob,  trying  to  imitate  the  unnatural 
guttural ;  "how  —  how  —  h  —  "  He  stopped  short 
to  stare  speechless. 

The  trail  led  unexpectedly  into  a  clearing.    In 


The  Boy.  59 

front  of  him,  against  a  background  of  poplar  and 
birch,  was  a  tepee :  and  in  front  of  the  tepee,  with 
the  opening  for  a  background,  stood  three  pappooses. 

One,  a  girl  of  seven,  was  holding  a  baby  boy  of 
two  by  the  hand.  Close  beside  her  stood  another 
boy  of  three  or  four.  Both  little  ones  were  in  gala 
dress,  having  borrowed  some  of  the  family  finery  in 
the  matter  of  their  father's  feather  war  bonnets  to 
play  "grown-up",  even  as  do  their  little  white 
brothers.  Their  small  round  faces  were  partly  hidden 
by  this  brilliant  headgear.  The  little  maid  wore  a 
long  skirt  and  blouse.  Her  dark  brown  hair  was 
banded  fillet-like  about  her  head.  Rich  red  showed 
beneath  the  light  copper  of  her  cheeks.  The  slight, 
yet  rounded  form,  was  exceedingly  graceful  in  line. 
The  dark  eyes,  shy  but  earnest,  were  fixed  on  Bob. 

"That's  Kinni-kinnik  and  her  brothers,"  said 
Me  Gillie.  He  hailed  them  in  their  own  language, 
and  springing  forward  to  meet  them  left  Bob  to  shift 
for  himself  —  a  procedure  wholly  foreign  to  the  boy's 
sociable  code.  He  continued  to  stare  at  Kinni- 
kinnik. 

She  was  without  exception  the  prettiest  thing  in 
animate  nature,  whether  human  or  otherwise,  he 
had  ever  seen.  And  how  glad  she  was  to  see  McGillie ! 
How  fast  they  were  chattering  together!  Suddenly 
Bob  felt  he  was  left  out  in  the  cold,  a  miserable 
enough  feeling  peculiar  to  childhood.  Its  intensity 
is  measured  by  the  degree  of  susceptibility  in  the 
child  nature,  and  this  special  child's  nature  was  of  a 
susceptibility  so  intense,  so  spasmodic,  as  well  as 
sporadic,  that,  at  times,  it  amounted  almost  to  weak- 
ness. 

After  a  few  minutes  the  boy  became  so  wretched 


60  Out  of  the  Silences 

that  he  got  mad  through  and  through;  and  what 
with  his  rage  at  McGillie  for  playing  him  what  he 
called  a  low-down  trick,  and  his  momentary  sense  of 
spiritual  isolation  from  the  rest  of  childhood,  for  he 
realized  he  could  neither  understand  them  nor  make 
himself  understood,  he  presented  to  the  little  hostess 
of  the  wigwam  a  pity-awakening  figure.  She  turned 
from  McGillie  and  disappeared  in  the  tepee.  With 
her  vanishing  it  was  as  if  the  sun  had  set  at  midday 
for  Bob. 

It  was  a  small  boy's  first  love,  —  many  a  man  looks 
back  upon  his  own  with  a  tenderness  unlike  any 
called  forth  by  later  experience,  —  and  it  was  destined 
to  feed  certain  springs  of  life  which  by  reason  of  a 
hard-conditioned  childhood  had  almost  failed  the  boy 
when  his  mother  died  and,  seemingly,  gone  wholly 
dry  since  the  death  of  his  uncle.  It  being  a  requisite 
of  normal  child-life  that  it  find  sustenance  in  the 
affections  and  full  development  by  means  of  them, 
this  matter  of  a  boy's  first  little  love  is  never  to  be 
treated  lightly. 

When  Kinni-kinnik  reappeared  she  was  carrying  a 
diminutive  cradle-board.  On  it,  strapped  on  a  tiny 
cushion  and  covered  with  a  small  gayly  colored 
Indian  blanket,  lay  a  sleepy  two-months'-old  puppy, 
blinking  idiotically.  A  bright  beaded  band  of  red 
flannel  about  his  tan-colored  head  heightened  the 
effect  of  complete  lunacy.  McGillie  laughed  loud  at 
the  sight. 

"You'll  laugh  t'  other  side  o'  your  face  'fore  I  get 
through  with  you." 

This  sudden  growl  from  Bob  sobered  McGillie.  It 
dawned  upon  him  that  he  had  gone  a  little  too  far 
in  ignoring  the  boy.  But  he  excused  himself  for 


The  Boy  61 

this:  who  could  think  of  any  one  else  when  Kinni- 
kinnik,  his  pet  from  her  babyhood,  was  in  evidence  ? 
He  determined  to  make  amends. 

"Say,  Bob,  Kinni-kinnik  wants  to  show  ye  her 
puppy  she  plays  doll  with."  He  interpreted  to 
Kmni-kinnik. 

The  little  maid  walked  up  to  Bob  and  gravely 
presented  him  with  the  cradle-board.  The  boy  held 
out  his  hands.  She  laid  the  board  on  his  opened 
palms. 

There  were  tears  in  the  boy's  eyes,  but  he  set  his 
jaw  to  keep  them  from  spilling  over.  How  the 
little  Indian  girl  interpreted  those  tears  Bob  never 
knew.  He  heard  McGillie  speaking : 

"She  wants  ye  to  set  down." 

Bob  dropped  in  the  grass,  Kinni-kinnik  settling  in 
front  of  him  with  the  lightness  of  an  eider  duck's 
feather.  The  small  brothers  squatted  on  their  heels 
near  their  sister,  although  the  baby  lost  his  equilibrium 
several  tunes  during  the  process  and  was  restored  to 
it  by  Kinni-kinnik.  Then  Kinni-kinnik  began  to 
question  Bob,  McGillie  acting  as  interpreter. 

"She  wants  to  know  if  ye've  got  a  father?" 

Bob  hated  to  be  dependent  for  his  speech  on 
McGillie,  especially  in  the  circumstances ;  he  wanted 
to  do  the  answering  himself.  He  felt  choked,  but  he 
spoke  sharply: 

"You  make  me  the  Injun  sign  for  'dead.'" 
McGillie  obeyed. 

Bob  laid  the  cradle-board  and  puppy  on  the  grass. 
With  the  peculiarly  graceful  waving  movement  of 
the  one  hand  under  and  over  the  other,  then  upward 
and  skyward,  he  answered  her: 

"Dead." 


62  Out  of  the  Silences 

"Got  a  mother?"  Me  Gillie  continued  to  translate. 

Again  that  expressive  motion  of  the  boy's  hands. 
Kinni-kinnik's  eyes  widened  in  pity  as  she  continued 
to  gaze  steadily  at  the  white  boy  facing  her. 

"Any  brothers  and  sisters?" 

For  the  third  time  the  boy's  hand  went  through 
the  same  motions. 

"A  grandfather?" 

Bob  shook  his  head. 

"Cousins,  aunts,  uncles?" 

Another  vigorous  shake  in  the  negative.  Kinni- 
kinnik  failed  to  grasp  the  significance  of  these  facts : 
a  white  boy  without  these  relations  which  make  the 
normal  life  and  environment  for  an  Indian  child ! 
And  failing  to  comprehend  this,  she  proceeded  to 
action  along  lines  she  thoroughly  understood. 
Stretching  out  her  legs  on  the  grass,  she  took  up  the 
cradle-board  and  balancing  it  on  her  toes  and  knees, 
as  she  had  seen  her  mother  do  so  many  times,  began 
to  croon  a  lullaby,  moving  her  feet  in  such  wise 
that  the  balanced  board  swayed  slightly,  swinging 
rhythmically  with  her  song : 


we  we  we  we   we   we  we  we  we  we   we  we  we  we 

Over  and  over  she  sang  it,  so  softly,  so  tenderly, 
like  the  little  red  mother  she  was,  that  the  blinking 
puppy  ceased  to  blink,  and  the  small  brothers  fell 
asleep  —  the  baby  tumbling  over  in  the  grass  half 
lost  in  his  father's  war  bonnet,  the  other  lying  with 
his  head  against  his  sister's  arm. 


The  Boy  63 

And  Bob?  Unknown  to  himself,  unknown  to 
Kinni-kinnik,  undreamed  of  by  McGillie,  Bob  was 
being  comforted  for  the  loss  of  family  affection, 
keenly  felt  by  him  without  his  being  conscious  of 
the  meaning  of  that  loss.  They  did  not  talk.  It 
was  a  new  experience  for  the  boy  to  enjoy  companion- 
ship without  speech.  He  learned  that  day  something 
of  the  "Indian  silence".  .  . 

When,  at  last,  the  trees  began  to  cast  long  shadows 
on  the  grass,  the  bitch  rose  up  suddenly  from  Bob's 
side,  listening,  alert.  At  the  same  moment  Kinni- 
kinnik  and  the  boys  were  aware  of  a  distant  subdued 
tumult  in  the  woods.  The  bitch  let  loose  a  prolonged 
roar ;  it  was  answered  by  the  discordant  yelping  of  a 
dozen  or  more  Indian  curs,  the  advance  couriers  of 
the  family  home-coming. 

"They're  comin',  the  whole  kit!  Ye'll  see  'em 
all  now  —  all  them  relations  ye  ain't  got,"  said 
McGillie,  his  voice  betraying  an  undercurrent  of 
excitement. 

Without  ceremony  Kinni-kinnik  kicked  off  the 
cradle-board  and  puppy,  shook  the  two  babies  broad 
awake,  clapped  the  big  war  bonnets  over  their  heads, 
and  dragging  each  by  a  hand  attempted  to  run  towards 
the  woods. 

"Gosh,  ye  can't  get  ahead  o'  her."  McGillie 
spoke  with  admiration.  Bob  was  silent.  "Ye'll  see 
some  Injuns,  I  can  tell  ye." 

The  boy  listened,  looked,  and  waited,  tense  with 
the  prospect  of  a  new  excitement. 

3 

It  was,  in  truth,  a  family  party  that  dribbled  out  of 
the  woods  into  the  open  —  ponies,  squaws,  dogs, 
men,  a  boy  or  two,  one  after  the  other,  to  the  accom- 


64  Out  of  the  Silences 

paniment  of  old  sleigh  bells,  yelping  of  curs,  clatter 
of  pails,  chatter  and  laughter. 

A  squaw  slipped  from  her  pony  and  caught  up  her 
baby,  kissing  him  all  over  his  face.  It  was  Kinni- 
kinnik's  mother,  Jane's  sister.  Kinni-kinnik  said 
something  to  her.  The  woman  looked  in  Bob's 
direction,  but  askance  at  him.  The  little  girl  caught 
at  her  mother's  hand  as  if  urging  her  to  come  and 
make  the  white  boy's  acquaintance.  But  the  squaw 
balked  and  answered  shortly.  McGillie  nudged  Bob. 

"We'd  better  be  gettin'  out  o'  here.  Injuns  don't 
want  no  white  boy,  that's  a  stranger  to  'em,  round 
when  they're  goin'  to  have  a  reg'lar  big  feed.  Look 
at  them  rabbits,  —  they've  got  dozens,  I'll  bet,  — 
and  see  them  maskinonge ! " 

Bob  needed  no  word  of  encouragement  from 
McGillie  to  look  at  anything,  for  he  was  taking  note 
of  everything  in  sight. 

"Who's  the  old  squaw  gettin'  off  her  pony,  the 
one  with  the  bunch  o'  rabbit  skins?" 

"That's  Kinni-kinnik's  grandfather's  aunt,  old 
Flyin'  Loon.  She's  most  a  hundred.  She  don't 
make  friends  with  no  whites,  let  me  tell  ye;  she's  a 
reg'lar  wildcat  with  whites."  This  was  a  stretch  of 
imagination  on  McGillie's  part;  but  it  impressed 
Bob,  as  he  intended  it  should. 

"Who's  that  behind  her?" 

"He's  Carmastic,  the  medicine-man,  an'  Flyin' 
Loon  is  his  aunt  —  he's  Kinni-kinnik's  grandfather, 
an'  the  boy  behind  him  is  one  o'  Kmni-kinnik's 
cousins.  He  feels  mighty  big  'count  o'  his  bein' 
a  big  chief's  great-grandson.  The  big  chief  was 
Flyin'  Loon's  brother  and  the  medicine-man's  father." 
He  twitched  Bob's  shirt  sleeve.  "See  there  —  the 


The  Boy  65 

man  just  comin'  out  o'  the  woods  an'  catchin'  up  the 
little  'un  on  his  pony?  He's  Kinni-kinnik's  father 
—  an'  he's  seen  ye,  Bob ;  he's  lookin'  at  ye." 

They  were  fine  looking  men,  these  Crees  of  the 
Border.  They  were  lighter  colored  than  their  brothers 
of  other  tribes,  with  noticeably  regular  features,  keen, 
intelligent  eyes,  the  lines  about  the  mouth  firm, 
clearly  cut,  bespeaking  earnestness,  straight  firm 
noses  expressive  of  will ;  and  about  mouth  or  nostrils 
not  a  line  indicative  of  cruelty  or  savagery.  They 
were  faces  to  be  trusted.  They  were  friends  on  whom 
a  man,  white  or  of  their  own  race,  might  count  when 
once  their  friendship  was  given.  The  white  boy 
sensed  something  of  this,  and  a  boy's  instinct  for  a 
man's  friendship  is  much  like  a  dog's  —  very  generally 
reliable. 

Kinni-kinnik  was  catching  at  her  father's  hand  as 
she  had  caught  at  her  mother's,  and  talking  earnestly 
and  eagerly  to  him  and  the  old  medicine-man.  The 
two  men,  Kinni-kinnik  between  them  still  holding 
her  father's  hand  and  chatting  freely,  came  over  to 
the  boys. 

The  child's  father  spoke  to  McGillie,  and  then  in 
silence  took  a  long,  searching  look  at  Bob.  But  the 
medicine-man,  drawing  still  nearer  to  the  boy,  held 
out  his  hand,  speaking  his  own  language  which 
McGillie  interpreted : 

"My  son,  you  are  welcome  among  your  red 
brothers." 

Bob,  looking  up  into  the  keen  undimmed  eyes, 
looking  down  again  at  the  slender  wrist,  the  thin 
long-fingered  hand,  gave  then  and  there  to  this 
Indian  his  whole-hearted  allegiance,  his  whole  trust, 
gave  it  at  once  and  absolutely.  Placing  his  hand  in 


.  66  Out  of  the  Silences 

the  Indian's  outstretched  one,  he  said  in  the  best 
imitation  of  McGillie  of  which  he  was  capable : 

"How,  Carmastic." 

Kinni-kinnik's  father  grunted  approval,  and  the 
little  maid,  shy  pleasure  in  her  brown  eyes,  took  the 
hand  she  was  still  holding  and  catching  up  Bob's 
left  laid  it  within  her  father's. 

So  the  bond  was  cemented  —  through  Kinni-kinnik. 

4 

They  waited  long  enough  to  see  the  campnre 
lighted,  the  big  kettle  of  water  put  over  it  to  boil,  the 
rabbits  skinned  and  put  in  to  stew ;  then  they  went 
homewards  along  the  darkening  north  trail. 

INFLUENCES 

i 

Chum,  Carmastic,  Flying  Loon,  Kinni-kinnik  and 
her  brothers,  these  became  his  life  friends;  but  it 
was  three  years  before  he  could  speak  easily  with  them 
in  their  own  tongue,  and  a  year  after  McGillie  had 
gone  into  the  far  north,  to  the  Great  Lakes  region  of 
Manitoba  to  trap  for  one  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Com- 
pany's posts  in  that  region. 

With  the  medicine-man's  grandson,  whom  he  called 
Chum  because  he  was  his  Indian  intimate,  he  hunted, 
trapped,  fished,  and  learned  to  ride,  when  at  last  he 
possessed  a  pony,  as  Indians  ride.  He  became  like 
an  Indian  boy  in  his  method  of  wild-thing  warfare. 
But  it  was  through  the  children  he  was  initiated  into 
the  ways  of  Indian  family  life,  given  the  freedom  of  the 
tepee,  permitted  to  play  their  games  with  their  mother. 
In  time  he  acquired  their  language.  He  learned  their 
songs,  their  dances.  He  was  much  with  them,  for 
Kinni-kinnik  was  the  lodestone  that  drew  him  often 


The  Boy  67 

over  the  north  trail  with  his  old  gun  and  the  bitch  for 
protection. 

The  cavalry  mount  was  slow  but  sure,  provided  the 
impossible  was  not  required  of  him  —  too  slow  for 
Bob  on  his  way  to  Kinni-kinnik's  tepee  of  a  cold 
afternoon  in  November.  .  . 

It  is  warm  in  the  wigwam,  warm  and  cozy  in  the 
glow  of  the  central  fire  through  the  smoke.  Often 
he  plays  the  game  of  "  silence  "  with  the  children  and 
their  mother ;  there  are  presents  for  the  one  who  keeps 
it  longest  unbroken.  When  all  is  quiet  in  the  tepee, 
their  mother  sings  about  the  fat  pig  hanging  in  a 
tree  —  a  snicker  —  "Who's  that?"  Dead  silence  on 
the  little  ones'  part.  The  mother  continues  her  song 
of  a  Frenchman,  of  the  man-with-a-pack  and,  last, 
of  a  rabbit  —  jumping,  leaping.  "Who  will  win  this 
arrow?"  She  draws  forth  from  its  hiding-place  a 
vermilion-tipped  arrow;  she  had  it  beneath  the 
blanket. 

The  children  are  still,  like  mice.  It  is  so  warm  and 
drowsy  in  the  wigwam.  The  mother  sings  again, 
ending  her  song  suddenly  with  "Zipl"  Pig,  man- 
with-a-pack,  Frenchman,  rabbit  —  all  have  vanished 
into  dreamland  through  the  gateway  of  song. 

It  is  dark  outside  in  the  woods.  The  wind  is 
rising.  Bob  shivers  at  the  sound ;  but  the  two  baby 
brothers  lie  curled  up  with  their  puppies  on  the 
blanket,  and  Kinni-kinnik's  winks  are  long  and  far 
between  as  she  snuggles  against  her  mother.  .  . 

Out  of  the  warmth  and  the  hominess  the  boy  goes 
homeward  glad  of  a  breath  of  fresh  air  in  his  lungs 
after  the  close,  smelly  atmosphere  of  the  wigwam, 
but  with  a  strange  hunger  in  his  heart.  It  is  lonely 
in  the  woods  on  the  north  trail.  The  sun  has  set. 


68  Out  of  the  Silences 

The  horse  is  too  slow  going  either  north  or  south  for 
Bob.  All  old  Flying  Loon's  stories  race  through 
his  mind. 

It  grows  dark  on  the  trail.  The  gray  bark  of  the 
great  sycamore,  that  stands  at  the  meeting  of  the 
three  trails,  shows  ghastly  in  the  twilight.  In  the 
boy's  greatening  pupils,  backed  by  his  quickened 
imagination,  it  assumes  the  form  of  an  Indian  Chief 
—  the  old  squaw's  brother  who  in  this  very  region 
wreaked  fearful  vengeance  on  the  Sioux.  A  quivering 
misshapen  aspen  embodies  the  old  squaw's  mother, 
the  great  medicine-woman ;  he  hears  her  whispered 
incantations  in  the  rustle  of  its  leaves.  A  burned  and 
blackened  poplar  stump  lying  beside  the  trail  is  the 
crumpled  body  of  a  "black-robe"  killed  by  the  Sioux. 

The  swish — •  somewhere  —  of  a  lynx!  He  hears 
it.  It  raises  the  gooseflesh  all  over  his  body.  The 
snapping  of  dried  underbrush  in  the  woodsy  gloom 
gives  a  bad  jolt  to  his  heart.  .  . 

Each  time  he  swore  never  to  go  over  the  trail 
again  after  dark ;  and  time  and  time  again  forswore 
himself,  for  the  trail  had  for  him  always  its  own 
peculiar  lure,  and  just  to  see  the  mothering  of  her 
babies  by  Jane's  sister  fed  something  of  the  boy's 
heart-hunger  which  he  felt  but  could  not  define. 

2 

It  remained  for  Flying  Loon  and  her  old  nephew, 
the  medicine-man,  to  complete  his  Indian  education. 

This  ancient  squaw  — •  her  skin  was  like  singed  hide, 
her  body  like  a  brown  skeleton  leaf  in  autumn  —  was 
a  veritable  treasure-house  of  Indian  legendary  lore  and 
tradition.  Her  mother  had  been  a  famous  medicine- 
woman  in  her  day.  Flying  Loon,  her  century-old 
daughter,  familiar  with  every  legend,  a  conjurer  of 


The  Boy  69 

spirits  of  animals,  believing  honestly  in  "spooks", 
peopling  the  wilderness  with  ghosts  of  old-time  warrior 
bands  returning  from  the  warpath,  filled  so  full  the 
boy's  receptive  mind,  so  kindled  his  imagination,  that 
the  wilderness  became  alive  for  him ;  its  trails  spirit- 
filled  with  bands  of  warring  Sioux  and  Cree ;  his  ears 
quick  to  hear  the  almost  noiseless  tread  of  its  by- 
gone generations.  The  remnants  of  its  old  altars 
and  their  mysteries  were  almost  sacred  to  him. 

Many  an  hour  Bob  spent  in  company  with  Car- 
mastic  and  the  old  squaw.  The  saddle-maker  was 
amused  at  this  intimacy ;  it  also  aroused  his  interest 
and  curiosity. 

"Wot  d'ye  talk  'bout  with  'em,  Son?"  he  asked 
him  once  when  the  boy's  home-coming  had  been  later 
than  usual. 

"Oh,  most  anything." 

"  Injuns  do  most  o'  the  talkin',  or  you  ?  " 

He  wanted  to  draw  the  boy  out  and  knew  the  only 
way  was  by  the  direct  question. 

"Kind  o'  half  an'  half."  Bob  smiled  out  of  the 
corners  of  his  brown  eyes.  He  knew  how  to  increase 
the  saddle-maker's  curiosity ;  he  practised  his  methods 
on  the  Indians  who  are  like  children  in  this  respect. 

"Half  an'  half  o'  wot?"  Plunket's  patience  was 
practically  endless  when  he  was  on  the  trail  of  an 
interesting  investigation. 

"We  swap  yarns." 

"Swap,  do  ye?    Wot  kind  d'  ye  swap?" 

"Injun  and  the  Book  yarns.  Old  Flyin'  Loon 
tells  reg'lar  spook  ones  'bout  dreams,  an'  spirits 
walkin'  down  by  the  lakes.  An'  then  I  go  her  one 
better  —  you  see,  I  have  to,  or  she  wouldn't  respect 
me." 


70  Out  of  the  Silences 

The  saddle-maker  smiled.  He  knew  what  "yarns" 
the  boy's  vivid  imagination  could  bring  forth  on 
occasion. 

"Yep.  I  tell  her  'bout  Saul's  goin'  to  the  Witch 
of  Endor,  and  how  she  drew  a  great  circle  with  her 
staff  — •  I  put  that  in ;  you  see,  the  Injuns  are  great 
on  circles;  it's  their  magic  —  on  the  ground;  an' 
she  called  up  Samuel  who  was  dead  and  had  been  a 
great  medicine-man  and  Saul's  best  friend ;  and  how 
the  ghost  of  Samuel  spoke  to  Saul  an'  said  he  would 
lose  all  his  lands  and  his  warriors  and  his  sons  because 
he  hadn't  done  what  the  Great  Spirit  had  ordered 
him  to  do  —  kill  off  another  tribe.  An'  Saul  was 
so  scared  that  he  fell  down. 

"It  says,  you  know,  Plunket"  (Plunket  did  not 
know,  but  was  an  absorbed  spectator  of  Bob's  dra- 
matic expression  of  Saul's  condition),  "that  he  fell 
down  all  along  the  earth,  an'  I  showed  her  how  he  did 
it — "  He  broke  off  suddenly  with  a  ringing  laugh. 
Bill  Plunket  joined  him ;  it  was  a  tonic  to  hear  that 
laugh. 

"  Gee,  I  got  the  old  squaw  scared  bluer  than  Saul, 
you  bet.  She  began  to  shake  and  try  to  sing,  but  her 
voice  cracked  so  she  had  to  give  it  up,  and  kept 
muttering  something  'bout  that  was  why  the  Crees 
had  lost  their  lands,  and  warriors,  and  sons. 

"An'  I  wouldn't  get  up  off  the  ground,  for  I  told 
her  the  ghost  of  Samuel  had  taken  all  my  strength 
from  me,  just  as  he  took  Saul's,  an'  I'd  have  to  eat 
something  to  give  me  strength,  just  as  Saul  did  when 
he  came  to. 

"You  see,  Plunket,  I  knew  she'd  got  a  lot  of  rasp- 
berries somewhere  'round,  for  Kinni-kinnik  told  me 
they'd  been  berrying  —  all  day." 


The  Boy  71 

'  "Did  she  give  ye  some?" 

"A  heap!  More'n  I  could  eat.  They  always  get 
something  to  eat  when  they  come  here ;  an'  I  wasn't 
goin'  to  tell  my  best  stories  out  of  the  Book  without 
gettin'  good  pay  hi  feed." 

The  saddle-maker  laughed.  He  knew  what  fun 
the  boy  had  at  times  with  his  red  friends.  "How  did 
Carmastic  take  it?" 

"Oh,  he  —  he's  different.  You  see,  sometimes  he 
believes  me  an'  then  again  he  doesn't.  Sometimes  I 
yarn  awful  —  make  up  a  lot  of  stuff  to  fool  him,  but 
the  old  medicine-man  knows  every  time.  He  just 
sits,  an'  smokes,  an'  says  'Huh  —  huh — ,'  an'  he 
am.'  Chum  laugh  fit  to  split.  But  when  I  say,  'That's 
in  the  Book;  I'll  read  it  to  you,'  why,  he  always 
believes  me." 

"He  tells  ye  yarns  too?" 

"Lots  :  'bout  all  the  tribes  up  north  where  McGillie 
is;  an' way  out  west  in  the  mountains;  an'  'bout  Indians 
at  the  reservation  on  the  Missouri  near  our  fort,  an' 
all  their  wars,  an'  how  they  used  to  fight  all  over  this 
mountain.  He  tells  me  how  some  of  the  Injuns 
trouble  him ;  for,  he  says,  Plunket,  they  have  forsaken 
the  ways  of  their  fathers  and  taken  up  with  the  white 
man's  religion.  It's  queer — but  that's  just  what  they 
did  in  the  Book,  only  they  put  it  in  different  words." 

"Wot  does  the  Book  say  'bout  that,  Son?" 

"That  the  nations  had  forgotten  God  and  forsaken 
the  ways  of  their  fathers'  God,  and  gone  whoring  with 
strange  idols.  Gee  whiz!  Didn't  they  get  paid  up 
for  that,  Plunket!" 

"How,  Son?" 

"They  got  licked  back  into  shape  by  God,  Plunket. 
He  didn't  let  one  of  'em  get  away  with  their  idols  an' 


72  Out  of  the  Silences 

strange  ways.  I'll  read  it  to  you  to-night  —  it's 
awful ;  an'  old  Flyin'  Loon's  ghost  yarns,  an'  all  her 
massacres,  an'  scalpin's,  ain't  in  it  with  what  those 
nations  that  forgot  God  had  to  stand.  You  know, 
Plunket,  sometimes  I  can't  help  thinkin'  God  kind  o' 
flicked  'em  on  the  raw  —  it  was  some  punishin'  He 
did." 

"I  guess  they  needed  it  all  right.  So  Carmastic 
said  his  people  had  some  of  'em  forsaken  the  ways  of 
their  fathers,  did  he?  Well,  he's  'bout  right;  but 
then  he  ain't  never  had  no  truck  with  the  missionary 
men.  Once  in  ten  years  or  so  they  come  through  here, 
but  they  don't  make  no  headway  —  not  with  the 
Crees.  These  Injuns  stick  to  their  religion,  an'  I 
respect  'em  for  it." 

"That's  just  what  Carmastic  told  me.  He  said: 
'Son  of  the  Silent  Places,'  —  you  know  he's  called  me 
that  ever  since  he  found  me  in  the  big  timber  by  the 
lake  with  the  three  bays,  over  westward,  away  from 
the  trail.  I  found  a  buffalo  skull  there  an'  I  told  him 
'bout  it.  An'  he  told  me  the  buffalo  skull  used  to 
be  on  the  altar  when  they  had  a  ceremony,  —  he  said : 
'Son  of  the  Silent  Places,  all  men,  red  and  white,  are 
the  children  of  the  Great  Spirit,  the  great  Sky-father ; 
but  the  red  men  worship  the  Sky-father  in  one  way  and 
the  white  men  in  another  way.  We  do  not  ask  the 
white  men  to  worship  our  way,  and  we  do  not  want 
the  white  men  to  try  to  make  us  worship  their  way. 
Red  men  and  white  men  all  have  to  eat  to  live,  but 
the  red  man  is  not  nourished  by  the  white  man's  food, 
an'  the  Indian's  food  makes  the  white  man  turn 
pale.  I  have  seen  this.  So  the  red  man's  spirit  needs 
other  food  than  the  white  man's  spirit  does.'" 

"I  guess  he's  'bout  right,  Son." 


The  Boy  73 

"He  sure  is."  Bob  spoke  as  if  his  own  knowledge 
were  of  this  world  and  the  next. 

"Well,  hold  on  to  what  the  Book  tells  ye.  It's  a 
mighty  old  book  an'  I  don't  know  much  'bout  it 
except  wot  ye  tell  me  an'  read  to  me,  but  it's  worth 
hearin'  —  an'  my  mother  used  to  read  it." 

"I  don't  believe  all  it  says." 

"How's  that?" 

"Why,  you  see,  you  just  can't,  Plunket.  There's 
that  yarn  'bout  Joshua  standin'  on  a  wall"  (Bob 
embellished  at  times)  "  an'  tellin'  the  sun  to  stand  still 
—  an'  it  did,  an'  its  shadow  went  backwards !  That's 
all  rot,  an'  Carmastic  says  so  too." 

"Mgh.  You  an'  the  old  medicine-man  gettin' 
pretty  intimate,  ain't  ye?" 

"I  like  him ;  he  explains  things  to  me." 

"Wot  things?" 

"Oh,  things:  how  the  animals  talk,  an*  their 
spirits  live  always — " 

"I'll  bet  you  couldn't  go  him  one  better  than  that, 
Son.  The  old  man  was  too  much  for  you  there — " 

"I  could  too.  I  told  him  'bout  Balaam's  ass 
talkin'  to  him  on  the  road  —  an'  he  believed  that,  he 
did.  But  I  don't." 

"I  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  Balaam's  ass,  but  my 
mule  could  most  talk  when  she'd  a  mind  to.  S'posin' 
ye  read  me  'bout  that  talkin'  ass  an'  the  circumstances, 
then  I'll  judge  for  myself." 

"All  right.  I'll  read  you,  too,  'bout  Elisha  an'  the 
bears  that  came  out  o'  the  woods  an'  ate  up  forty-two 
children  just  'cause  they  hollered  after  him :  'Bald- 
pate,  Baldpate ! '  I  scared  Kinni-kinnik  an'  the  boys 
so  they  didn't  go  out  of  the  tepee  till  their  father  came 
home,  tellin'  them  that." 


74  Out  of  the  Silences 

"I  wonder  where  that  mule  o'  mine  is,"  said  the 
saddle-maker  without  noticing,  apparently,  Bob's  last 
exploit  in  terrifying  the  three  pappooses  within  their 
little  red  skins.  "  Kinni-kinnik's  pa  ever  said  any- 
thing 'bout  seein'  her?" 

"Nope." 

"Nor  the  horse  —  nor  Jane,  has  he?" 

"Nope." 

This  answer  puzzled  Plunket.  It  was  time  to 
learn  something  about  Jane ;  it  was  high  time  to  find 
out  what  she  was  doing  and  where  she  was.  The 
time  limit  he  had  set  himself  for  letting  her  alone  was 
about  to  expire  —  three  years  and  a  half  now  since 
his  home-coming  to  the  squawless  and  childless  hut. 
He  had  waited  in  vain  for  the  Indians  to  put  him  on 
the  trail.  Of  her  whereabouts  he  had  reasons  for 
believing  he  could  make  a  good  guess ;  but  no  word  or 
hint  had  his  red  friends  let  fall  concerning  her.  He 
had  hoped  they  would  tell  the  boy  something  about 
her;  that  Bob  would  repeat  this  to  him.  This 
answer  hi  the  negative  disappointed  him.  He  knew 
the  boy  was  truth  itself  when  any  serious  matter 
was  at  stake. 

He  decided  to  take  affairs  into  his  own  hands. 
Jane  had  been  emancipated  quite  long  enough  and 
his  two  boys  were  outgrowing  babyhood  and  needing 
a  father  —  their  father.  Bill  Plunket  knew  his  duty, 
but  anticipated  little  pleasure  in  doing  it.  He  told 
himself  if  Jane  had  taken  unto  herself  another  mate, 
he  would  still  be  responsible  for  his  boys  and  father 
them  to  manhood.  If,  on  the  contrary,  she  had 
remained  his  squaw  —  well,  there  was  but  one  thing 
to  do.  Bob,  noticing  that  his  silence  was  not  in  the 
usual  order  of  story-telling,  left  him  alone. 


The  Boy  75 

During  the  next  fifteen  minutes  the  saddle-maker 
chewed  the  bitter  cud  common  to  all  men  who  have 
made  a  matrimonial  mistake. 

McGlLLIE 

During  his  last  year  on  the  mountain,  McGillie's 
progress  in  writing  was  so  painfully  slow,  and  his 
instructor  so  impatient,  that  the  semi-weekly  lesson 
became  a  burden  and  discipline  for  both  boys.  Bob 
persisted  in  it  because  it  was  a  matter  of  honor  to 
earn  his  gun  "straight",  as  he  confided  to  the  saddle- 
maker  who  found  plenty  of  amusement  in  watching 
the  two  boys'  manoeuvres  to  diminish  the  lesson- 
strain.  Moreover,  he  determined  to  keep  on  with 
his  instructions  because  it  opened  up  a  way  for  him 
to  earn  a  pony. 

McGillie  had  let  it  be  known  through  Kinni-kinnik 
to  the  Indians,  that  in  time  he  would  be  prepared  to 
write  letters  in  English  for  them  and  mail  them  at 
Boissevain  —  for  proper  compensation.  This  prop- 
osition met  with  favor  from  his  red  friends,  for 
often  they  were  sorely  put  to  it  to  make  their  wants 
and  complaints  known  to  distant  authorities. 

In  consequence  of  this  somewhat  premature  as 
well  as  rash  statement,  he  was  called  upon  before  he 
had  been  six  months  at  the  hateful  task  of  making 
what  he  called  fish  hooks  and  lariat  loops,  to  write  a 
letter  to  a  certain  trader  in  the  north. 

McGillie  was  staggered,  but  there  was  no  crying- 
halves.  He  agreed  to  do  it  "with  help."  Then 
much  against  his  grain  he  consulted  Bob,  but  only 
because  he  was  confronted  by  stern  necessity  in  time 
limits. 

"Wot'll  I  do?"  he  queried  anxiously.     "I  told 


y6  Out  of  the  Silences 

'em  I'd  write  that  letter  for  'em,  an'  now  I  can't  do 
it  more'n  a  chipmunk.  Gosh,  I'd  better  lose  my 
gun  than  go  back  on  wot  I've  said  to  the  Injuns  !  Ye 
see,  if  ye  do  it  just  once  they  get  set  against  ye  for 
life.  I  thought  ye'd  help  me,  but  ye  don't  know  much 
Injun."  His  pale  blue  eyes  beneath  scant  reddish 
eyebrows  were  full  of  real  trouble.  Bob  made  no 
answer.  He  was  thinking  hard. 

"Look  here,  McGillie — "  He  spoke  so  abruptly 
after  a  few  minutes'  silence  that  McGillie  came 
promptly  to  attention  and  bored  his  worried-looking 
eyes  into  his  attorney's ;  " —  you  can  talk  Injun,  an' 
I  can't,  not  much  —  yet ;  an'  you  can  understand  all 
they  say,  an'  I  can  only  understand  a  part." 

"That's  so."  McGillie  answered  perfunctorily. 
He  made  no  attempt  to  follow  a  blind  mental  trial. 
He  could  only  wonder  what  Bob  was  driving  at. 

"An' I  can  write—  " 

This  forceful  pronouncement  was  interrupted  by  a 
superlatively  whole-hearted  confirmation  from  the 
would-be  scribe  : 

"Ye're  the  rip-snortin'est  kind  o'  a  writer,  Bob." 

"An'  you  can't."  This  self-evident  fact  lost  no 
weight  from  the  tone  in  which  it  was  uttered.  Hear- 
ing it,  McGillie's  hopes  waned. 

"Nope."  There  was  both  disgust  and  discourage- 
ment audible  in  the  monosyllable.  Bob  laughed. 

"You  old  numskull,  —  that's  what  my  uncle 
used  to  call  me  when  I  was  thick,  —  don't  you  see 
now?" 

Poor  muddled  McGillie  could  only  parry  feebly: 

"See  wot?" 

"Gee,  I'd  like  to  punch  a  hole  through  your  head 
an'  let  in  some  daylight.  Don't  you  see  that  if 


The  Boy  77 

you  can  talk  Injun  an'  can't  write  it,  an'  I  can  write 
English  an'  can't  talk  Injun  —  much,  that  we  can 
make  a  go  of  it  together?" 

"How?" 

Now  Bob  had  collated  and  abstracted  certain  words 
from  the  Book  that  were  intended  to  express  the  very 
essence  of  expletive  when  occasion  demanded,  as  at 
the  present  moment.  Having  once  suffered  from  a 
boil  on  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  his  no  great  amount 
of  patience  being  tried  to  the  utmost  by  the  continuous 
irritation  and  inconvenience  caused  by  the  eruption, 
he  had  gathered  a  little  comfort  from  the  Book  of 
Job.  He  drew  near  in  spirit,  as  also  in  the  torture  of 
the  flesh,  to  this  patriarch,  and  found  a  real  con- 
solation in  the  fact  that  he  was  much  less  afflicted 
than  this  Biblical  subject.  He  never  went  so  far  as 
as  to  follow  Job  and  curse  his  Creator.  His  innate 
reverence  forbade  that  ;  but  he  fashioned  a  semi- 
curse,  founded  on  his  present  affliction  and  the 
ancient  sufferer's,  that,  in  moments  of  crisis  like  the 
present,  gave  vent  to  his  extreme  irritation  and  im- 
patience in  three  words.  Hearing  that  last  "How?" 
of  McGillie's,  his  impatience  with  the  lad's  stupidity 
reached  the  explosive  point. 

"By  Job's  boils!  Can't  you  see  through  a  gun- 
barrel  when  you're  cleaning  it?" 

In  despair  of  imparting  to  the  slow-working  mind 
even  a  dim  perception  of  what  he  was  aiming  at,  — 
a  good  bargain  as  well  as  a  way  for  McGillie  to  keep 
his  word  to  the  Indians,  —  he  shook  his  fist  dan- 
gerously near  the  quarter-breed's  nose. 

"It's  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face  —  ain't 
it  ?  —  that  if  I  can  write  English  an'  you  can  talk 
Injun,  an'  if  the  Injun  tells  you  in  Injun  what  he 


78  Out  of  the  Silences 

wants  you  to  write  in  English,  an'  you've  got  a  tongue 
in  your  head  to  tell  me  in  English  what  he  says  to  you 
in  Injun,  an'  if  you  tell  the  Injun,  in  Injun,  that  you 
tell  me  in  English  what  he  says  to  you  in  Injun, 
why  —  I  can  write  English  for  the  Injun,  can't  I  ? 
Now  see?" 

It  took  several  minutes  and  twice  repeating  before 
McGillie  found  his  way  through  the  intricacies  of  this 
scheme.  But  when  he  did  — ! 

DISILLUSIONED 

i 

So  the  pact  was  made,  the  half-and-half  profits 
agreed  to,  and  in  due  time  the  pony  earned. 

McGillie,  in  the  third  year  of  Bob's  life  with  the 
saddle-maker,  was  in  the  far  north  earning  his  live- 
lihood as  trapper  for  one  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Com- 
pany's posts  in  the  region  of  the  Great  Lakes  of 
Manitoba.  After  he  left  the  mountains,  Bob  ac- 
cepted the  full  responsibilities  of  the  position  of 
tribal  scribe,  and  reaped  all  the  benefits  accruing  to 
his  unique  position  of  letter-writer  for  all  the  Indians 
within  a  radius  of  many  miles. 

Naturally  he  was  cheated  in  his  first  pony  trade. 
The  Crees  are  notably  honest  when  dealing  in  others' 
property,  honest  and  trustworthy;  but,  like  their 
white  brothers,  they  display  the  greatest  finesse  in 
trickery  when  selling  and  bartering  what  is  their  own. 
Generally  they  get  the  better  of  the  bargain.  A 
horse  trade,  especially,  which  among  both  red  men 
and  white  is  proverbially  an  accepted  game  of  shy- 
stering,  permits  the  full  display  of  some  of  the  meanest 
characteristics  of  mankind  —  at  least,  Bob  found  it  so. 

For  over  a  year  now  he  had  been  writing  letters 


The  Boy  79 

to  the  best  of  his  ability  —  no  small  ability  that,  for 
the  boy  had  for  his  only  and  continual  reading  the  one 
Book :  a  portion  of  the  Old  Testament  that  was  found 
together  with  a  pack  of  soiled  cards  by  the  three  who 
sought  refuge  in  the  Missouri  dugout,  and  tossed 
into  the  kit  by  the  soldiers  whose  orders  were  to  take 
everything  belonging  to  the  rescued.  He  profited 
by  the  reading  in  more  ways  than  one. 

This  soiled,  coverless  torso  of  Scripture  had  been  to 
him  a  wellspring  of  pure  English.  It  provided  him 
with  a  simple  yet  expressive  vocabulary,  and  regu- 
lated the  flow  of  his  ever-ready  language,  clarifying 
the  vernacular  of  his  white  environment.  Together 
with  the  fine  simple  expression  of  the  Indian  thought 
and  mind  in  the  Cree  language,  —  not  such  a  distant 
thought  from  that  of  the  Israelites  in  their  tongue 
of  old,  —  it  gave  to  him  the  use  of  a  dual  language. 
He  changed  at  will  from  the  vernacular  of  the  hut 
to  the  English  of  King  James'  version  of  the  Book, 
conscious  only  of  the  change  in  that  he  used  it  to  suit 
circumstances.  His  constant  intercourse  with  the 
Indians  increased  this  gift  of  dual  speech. 

That  the  letters  were  satisfactorily  written  was 
evidenced  to  the  Indians  by  the  replies  they  received 
which  were  duly  read  to  them  by  Bob.  Indians 
believe  what  they  can  see,  and  seeing  the  result  of 
their  written  communications  they  believed  in  the 
boy  and  loved  him.  They  failed,  however,  to  under- 
stand his  white  outlook;  as  a  result,  all  friendships 
came  near  suffering  shipwreck  on  the  pony  trade. 

2 

On  his  day  of  triumph,  Bob  rode  his  own  pony 
over  the  north  trail.  As  he  neared  the  hut  he  let 
forth  a  war  whoop  that  roused  the  bitch  to  fury  and 


8o  Out  of  the  Silences 

spurted  the  pony,  who  never  had  known  a  warpath, 
over  the  grass  to  the  hut.  Plunket  and  the  dogs 
came  out  to  see. 

"See  my  pony,  my  horse,  Plunket!"  he  shouted. 
"He's  all  mine  —  I  earned  him.  Look  at  my 
blanket!"  He  flung  himself  from  the  pony  to  dis- 
play its  bright  colors  in  warp  and  woof.  "They 
threw  it  in."  The  saddle-maker  admired  it. 

' '  They  done  well  by  ye,  Son.  Ye  deserve  it.  Ye' ve 
worked  for  it  —  hard  too.  'T  was  a  tough  job  ye 
tackled  to  learn  McGillie  letter-writin',  an'  a  tougher 
to  keep  at  it.  He  can  manage  a  couple  o'  words  on  a 
post-card,  but  that's  his  limit.  Let's  look  the  beast 
over." 

He  examined  the  pony's  teeth,  punched  his  chest, 
felt  his  hocks,  passed  his  hand  down  his  cheek,  which 
the  pony  resented  in  a  rather  ugly  manner  by  throw- 
ing up  his  head  viciously,  and  ran  his  palm  along  his 
backbone.  Bob,  thinking  he  knew  it  all,  had  been 
unwilling  to  ask  advice,  concerning  this  trade,  of  the 
saddle-maker  who  was  wise  enough  not  to  offer  any, 
thinking  it  best  to  let  the  boy  have  his  experience 
early ;  but  he  strongly  desired  his  approval  of  this 
purchase.  During  the  examination  of  the  little 
beast,  he  tried  to  read  the  saddle-maker's  face,  but 
failed. 

"He's  a  good  looking  pony,  but  looks  can  be 
deceivin'.  Don't  ye  get  too  hot  under  yer  shirt 
collar,  Son,"  he  said  quietly,  "'cause  I'm  goin'  to 
tell  ye  somp'in'  no  man  nor  boy  wants  to  hear  for  — " 

"Wot's  that?"    Bob's  voice  was  sharp. 

"This  beast  is  spavined  in  both  legs,  so  he  can't 
limp  —  see  ?  If  he  wanted  to,  he  couldn't.  An'  he's 
chest-foundered  so  he  ain't  safe  on  the  down  side  o' 


The  Boy  81 

an  ant  hill.  An'  his  sight  ain't  quite  wot  it  ought  to 
be ;  ye  see  he  didn't  know  whether  I  was  goin'  to  be 
kind  to  him  or  wallop  his  cheek  with  a  rope  just  now 
—  kind  o'  blind  in  the  off  eye.  But  his  will  is  good 
to  do  just  'bout  the  right  thing  at  the  right  time  so 
long  as  he  ain't  interfered  with,  just  like  some  folks. 
I'll  say  that  much  for  him,  and  that's  all  the  good 
there  is  'bout  him.  Ye  might  stick  on  him  if  he'd 
let  ye,  but  then  again  ye  mightn't,  just  accordin'. 
They've  cheated  ye." 

The  boy's  raging  passion  at  the  fraud  perpetrated 
on  him,  the  burning  sense  of  injustice,  the  hate  so 
suddenly  kindled  by  the  undermining  of  his  trust  in 
men  and  animals,  overcame  him  so  suddenly  that  his 
cheeks  showed  white  through  the  tan  before  a  surge 
of  blood  turned  his  face  scarlet ;  then  his  anger  found 
vent. 

"I'll  kill  that  Injun,  I'll  kill  him  — kill  him! "  he 
shrieked,  yet  choking  over  his  words.  He  struck  out 
blindly  with  his  fists.  With  a  howl  the  bitch  fled 
precipitately.  The  pony  caught  a  blow  on  his 
weakened  chest  muscles,  reared  snorting,  then  raced 
for  the  woods.  The  dogs  turned  tail  and  made 
for  the  hut.  The  saddle-maker  alone  stood  his 
ground,  although  the  bright  blanket  swished  over 
his  head  as  the  boy  flung  it  as  far  from  him  as 
he  could. 

"Just  let  me  get  my  gun  —  get  at  him,"  he  panted, 
making  a  dash  for  the  hut  and  his  rifle.  But  at  that 
moment  the  saddle-maker  laid  hands  on  him  for  the 
first  and  only  time  since  he  had  been  with  him.  He 
must  not  let  things  go  too  far  with  the  boy  —  or 
the  Indians. 

"Come  along  with  me,"  he  said  firmly;  and  with 


82  Out  of  the  Silences 

much  balking  and  kicking,  —  the  boy  was  beside 
himself,  —  Bob  was  dragged  into  the  shed,  taken  by 
his  belt,  dropped  on  a  pile  of  dried  grass,  and  the  door 
bolted  on  him  before  he  quite  realized  what  had 
happened. 

3 

For  a  month  the  boy  was  moody  and  mostly  silent, 
plotting  revenge.  No  word  of  the  saddle-maker's 
appeased  him ;  no  argument  held  any  force  of  con- 
viction for  him.  He  had  been  cheated  after  giving 
good  work,  defrauded  in  not  receiving  for  it  a  square 
compensation.  In  vain  the  saddle-maker  told  him 
that  white  men  did  the  same.  He  did  not  believe 
him.  He  had  his  own  ideals  of  the  white  man's 
civilization. 

"  'T  was  a  crooked  deal,  Son,  and  nothing  can 
make  it  square,"  the  saddle-maker  admitted;  "but 
let  me  tell  ye,  ye'll  run  up  against  a  good  many  like 
it  an'  it  don't  help  nothing  nor  square  nothing  to  be 
a  sorehead  through  life." 

"  'T  isn't  right." 

"No  more  it  aint:  but  their  ideas  ain't  ours, 
don't  ye  see?  Ye've  got  to  look  at  things  the  way 
they  do  'fore  ye  cut  loose  from  'em  —  won't  see  'em 
when  they  come  hangin'  round  here  like  children 
waitin'  to  make  up.  Kinni-kinnik's  pa  tells  me 
that  she's  off  her  reg'lar  feed  ever  since  ye  stopped 
goin'  there,  most  a  month.  When  an  Injun  stops 
eatin',  ye  can  depend  on  it  there's  trouble." 

All  this  was  as  water  spilt  on  the  ground ;  it  failed 
to  change  the  boy's  attitude  towards  his  friends. 

"'T  isn't  right,  't  isn't  fair,"  was  all  the  answer 
forthcoming.  The  saddle-maker  desisted  and  trusted 
to  time,  the  all-healer. 


The  Boy  83 

4 

The  very  next  day  Carmastic,  on  his  pony,  drew  up 
at  the  door  of  the  shed  where  the  saddle-maker  usually 
sat  at  work.  The  two  men  had  always  been  most 
friendly  and  the  Indian's  welcome  was  a  hearty  one. 
Carmastic  dismounted  and  left  the  pony  to  graze. 

"I  have  come  to  see  Little  Owl.  He  no  longer 
comes  to  see  us.  Our  skies  are  always  clouded  now ; 
we  miss  the  sunshine.  Where  is  Little  Owl?" 

The  saddle-maker  spoke  Cree  fairly  under- 
standingly.  "He  was  here  a  minute  ago.  He  left 
when  he  saw  you  coming,  Carmastic.  You  know  why 
the  sun  refuses  to  shine?" 

"I  know." 

"I  will  find  him." 

When  Bob  saw  who  it  was  coming  out  of  the  woods 
from  the  north  trail,  he  beat  a  quick  retreat  into  the 
shed,  scaled  the  ladder  to  the  low  loft  and  lay  at  this 
moment  under  the  eaves  with  his  eye  to  a  long  crack 
between  the  boards.  He  could  hear  every  word, 
and  see  enough  to  satisfy  him  that  Carmastic  was  in 
full  dress:  high,  dark  blue  leggings,  a  beaded  and 
embroidered  shirt  fringed  along  the  length  of  the 
sleeves,  a  broad  scarlet  belt  beaded  in  white,  and 
around  his  neck,  over  the  shirt,  something  like  a 
breast-plate  wrought  skilfully  in  a  solid  design  of 
blue,  white,  and  amber  beads.  It  was  a  wonderful 
thing,  a  thing  of  extreme  beauty  as  the  sun  struck  it 
and  sent  a  reflection  up  into  Bob's  right  eye. 

In  his  hand  he  held  his  ceremonial  peace  pipe  at 
which  Bob  had  been  permitted  to  look,  but  never  to 
touch  although  his  fingers  ached  to  handle  the  long 
stem,  the  carved  red  bowl.  He  saw  the  Indian  sit 
down  on  his  heels  before  the  door.  He  rested  the 


84  Out  of  the  Silences 

bowl  of  his  pipe  on  the  ground  and  held  the  stem  in 
his  right  hand ;  it  reached  to  the  height  of  his  fore- 
head, and  he  was  a  long-backed  man. 

Bob  knew  enough  of  the  red  people's  ways  to 
understand  that  this  was  a  ceremonial  visit  and  must 
be  treated  as  such.  It  meant  business.  He  said  to 
himself  that  he  trusted  the  medicine-man ;  that  it 
wasn't  Carmastic's  or  Chum's  fault  that  he  had  been 
cheated  out  of  a  good  pony.  He  wanted  one  like 
Carmastic's,  and  he  knew  he  deserved  it. 

So  for  a  moment  his  thoughts  ran  on,  but  no  longer 
turbidly  obscuring  what,  at  bottom,  was  of  value  in 
the  friendship  of  the  Indians.  Suddenly,  hearing 
Plunket's  step  on  the  ladder,  he  longed  with  a  great 
longing  to  mingle  again  with  his  friends.  He  told 
Plunket  about  it  afterwards,  applying  Scripture  as 
he  often  did  when  moved  deeply:  "My  bowels 
yearned  towards  Chum  and  Carmastic."  Whereat 
the  saddle-maker  smiled,  for  he  knew  the  boy's 
misery  had  root  in  his  social  isolation  as  well  as  the 
wretchedness  common  to  humankind  when  it  kicks 
too  long  and  too  vigorously,  barking  its  own  shins, 
against  the  pricks  of  human  meannesses. 

"I'm  comin'  down,  Plunket,"  he  announced  when 
the  saddle-maker's  head  appeared  above  the  square 
opening  in  the  floor  of  the  loft. 

"All  right,  Son.  I'm  goin'  to  the  hut  to  get  some 
feed  an'  'baccy  for  Carmastic." 

THE  PIPE  OF  PEACE 

i 

"How,  Little  Owl." 
"How,  Carmastic." 
A  long  silence  followed.  Bob  was  not  at  his  ease, 


The  Boy  85 

for  he  knew  not  what  to  expect  next,  what  to  say  or 
do.  But  he  had  already  learned  certain  ways  of 
wisdom  from  his  Indian  environment,  among  them 
the  way  of  silence  :  nothing  to  say,  nothing  to  mend. 
He  sat  down  in  the  shed  doorway  at  a  respectful 
distance  from  the  medicine-man. 

Slowly  Carmastic  passed  his  hand  along  the  stem 
of  his  pipe.  At  last  he  broke  silence : 

"We  will  smoke  the  peace  pipe  together,  Little 
Owl." 

Bob  was  staggered  at  the  statement.  Never  yet 
had  he  put  a  pipe,  or  the  weed  in  any  form,  between 
his  lips.  He  had  given  his  promise  to  the  saddle- 
maker  to  wait  until  he  was  fourteen.  But  he  knew 
he  could  not  refuse  this  invitation  which  in  itself 
was  an  honor.  No  white  man  would  dare  to  refuse, 
much  less  a  white  boy.  Nor  had  he  any  desire  to 
cross  the  old  Indian;  on  the  contrary  he  cherished 
an  overweening  ambition  to  smoke  this  special  pipe, 
noted,  as  he  had  been  told,  among  the  members  of 
the  tribe  far  beyond  the  confines  of  the  Turtle  Moun- 
tain. 

"We  will  smoke  it  together,"  he  replied,  knowing 
this  to  be  the  only  safe  answer.  He  saw  the  saddle- 
maker  coming  from  the  hut,  tobacco  bag  in  hand. 

"I'm  goin'  to  smoke  the  peace  pipe  with  the 
medicine-man."  There  was  an  unmistakable  note  of 
triumph  in  his  voice.  Plunket  smiled. 

"That's  just  as  it  should  be,  Son.  Here's  yer 
'baccy."  He  handed  it  to  Bob  who  gave  it  to  Car- 
mastic. 

The  medicine-man  had  three  small  sticks  hi  his 
hand.  Bob  watched  him  with  growing  curiosity. 
The  Indian  made  a  crotch  of  the  sticks  and  placed  a 


86  Out  of  the  Silences 

cross-stick  in  it.  Against  this  stick  he  propped  the 
stem  of  his  pipe;  the  bowl  rested  on  the  ground. 
He  knelt  before  it  on  one  knee,  speaking  earnestly : 

"Little  Owl  came  among  us,  we  did  not  go  to  him. 
We  welcomed  him.  We  called  him  Little  Friend. 
Ponder  what  I  say : 

"His  red  friends  have  been  tricked  many  times  by 
Little  Owl's  older  brothers.  The  white  men  came  to 
us  carrying  two  faces  —  one  when  they  sought  a  gift 
from  us :  our  land,  the  corn  that  grows  on  it,  our 
waters  in  which  we  fish,  our  forests  in  which  we  hunt ; 
the  other  when  they  had  been  given  what  they  covet 
from  us.  Our  lands,  waters,  forests  —  all  are  now 
the  white  man's. 

"They  speak  friendship  before  the  gift,  they  betray 
friendship  after  the  gift  has  been  bestowed. 

"Now  they  are  fed.  We  go  hungry.  They  dam 
our  waters,  and  we  lack  for  fish.  They  cut  down  our 
forests;  they  are  warmed  and  clothed  by  what  we 
lack.  Their  iron  horses  carry  them  up  and  down  our 
lands ;  they  are  free  to  go  and  to  come.  We  may  not 
move  of  our  own  will,  but  only  at  the  will  of  white 
men.  We  are  no  longer  free.  But  the  children  of 
these  white  men  are  not  hated  by  the  Indians ;  their 
fathers'  deeds  are  not  theirs.  Ponder  what  I  say : 

"There  are  two  kinds  of  white  men,  good  and  bad. 
There  are  two  kinds  of  red  men,  good  and  bad.  Little 
Owl  has  been  tricked  once  by  a  bad  Indian;  for 
friendship  he  received  fraud.  Little  Owl's  red 
brothers  have  been  tricked  times  without  number 
by  the  bad  white  men  for  more  than  a  hundred 
years  —  Flying  Loon  knows.  I  have  said." 

In  the  silence  that  followed  Bob  did  some  hard 
thinking  for  a  thirteen-year-old.  The  Indian  took  up 


The  Boy  87 

his  pipe,  filled  it,  lighted  it  and  looked  inquiringly  at 
the  saddle-maker  who  shook  his  head  with  an  em- 
phatic gesture. 

"We  have  always  been  good  friends,  Carmastic. 
We  have  no  need  to  smoke  the  peace  pipe.  This  is 
between  you  and  the  boy." 

The  Indian  grunted  approval.  He  lifted  the  pipe 
from  the  crotch ;  raised  it  straight  up  towards  the 
sun ;  held  it  so  a  moment,  then,  lowering  it,  put  it  to 
his  lips  and  drew  a  few  times  till  the  weed  was  bright 
in  the  bowl.  He  passed  it  to  Bob,  who  had  seated 
himself  on  the  other  side  of  the  crotch  of  sticks  in 
order  to  get  a  better  view  of  the  famous  pipe. 

Bob  took  the  pipe  with  a  gravity  becoming  the 
occasion.  He  gave  the  saddle-maker  one  quick 
glance  as  if  asking  his  entire  approval  of  this  reaction- 
ary proceeding.  His  friend  nodded.  The  boy  put 
his  lips  to  the  stem. 

It  is  one  thing  to  watch  a  man  smoke  his  pipe,  taking 
his  ease  and  receiving  comfort  from  the  process,  and 
quite  another  to  make  a  first  attempt  to  smoke  one, 
especially  when  one  is  a  boy,  unused  to  both  pipe  and 
tobacco,  and  confronted  by  some  two  and  a  half  feet 
of  pipestem  through  which  to  draw  up  the  smoke. 

It  was  with  difficulty  Bill  Plunket  preserved  his 
gravity  throughout  the  ceremony.  The  Indian's  face 
was  impassive. 

Bob's  face  muscles  were  working  energetically; 
he  was  giving  his  undivided  attention  to  suction. 
His  cheeks  were  hollowed  by  the  effort,  his  eyes 
bulging,  his  face  red  with  the  exertion.  For  several 
minutes  there  was  no  perceptible  result.  Suddenly 
there  was  an  irruption  of  smoke  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  a  small  volcano.  Bob  had  put  forth  his 


88  Out  of  the  Silences 

utmost  wind-effort  and  drawn  smoke  into  his  entire 
breathing  apparatus  —  lungs,  throat,  mouth,  nose. 
He  choked,  sputtered,  gasped,  opening  his  mouth  wide 
to  discharge  the  surplus.  His  eyes  were  bitten  by  the 
saddle-maker's  strong  tobacco  till  they  stung  and 
watered.  Through  the  running  rainbow  hues  of  their 
watery  rims  he  looked  to  see  if  his  friends  were  laugh- 
ing at  him,  but  both  Indian  and  white  man  were  to  all 
appearances  intent  upon  their  own  grave  thoughts, 
unmindful  of  any  volcanic  action  in  their  midst. 

Bob  took  courage,  and  having  regained  his  breath 
pulled  away  bravely,  choking  a  little  at  times,  but  on 
the  whole  managing  to  produce  some  smoke,  and 
more  each  time  than  he  could  well  manage;  but  he 
was  game  to  the  end.  When  he  began  to  grow  a 
little  pale  about  the  mouth,  Carmastic  reached  for 
his  pipe,  saying : 

"We  have  smoked  the  peace  pipe  together;  now 
we  may  make  gifts."  Wherewith  he  took  something 
from  his  shirt  and  held  it  up  for  Bob  to  see. 

"Flying  Loon  sends  it  to  Little  Owl.  Her  mother 
was  a  great  medicine-woman  —  my  grandmother. 
This  is  her  sacred  shell.  As  we  know  that  the  sweet- 
grass  is  the  breath  of  the  Great  Spirit,  so  we  know 
that  this  shell  is  the  Great  Spirit.  Guard  it  well. 
Ten  ponies  may  not  buy  it."  He  laid  it  on  the  boy's 
palm. 

It  was  an  object  wrought  from  a  shell.  It  lay  on 
Bob's  hand  like  the  round,  shallow,  cup-like  corolla 
of  a  full-blown  flower.  Its  highly  polished  surface 
on  the  upturned  concave  side  was  flawless ;  its  tints 
a  marvellous,  one  might  dare  say  divine  transfusion 
of  the  pink  prairie  rose  and  the  rich  white  of  flowering 
dogwood. 


The  Boy  89 

For  the  second  time  in  his  short  life  Bob  found 
nothing  to  say.     He  was  awed.     He  could  only  raise 
his  eyes  to  Carmastic's  and  look  his  thanks. 
2 

The  saddle-maker  was  ready  with  his  hospitality 
and  provided  the  Indian  with  what  he  called  "a 
good  feed."  When  they  had  eaten  in  peace,  plenty, 
and  silence,  and  the  inner  man,  whether  beneath  red 
skin  or  white,  was  experiencing  deep  satisfaction, 
Carmastic  proceeded  to  business. 

3 

"I  knew  there  was  a  tail  to  his  kite  —  an'  a  long 
one,"  Plunket  told  Bob  afterwards.  "Let  an  Injun 
alone  for  gettin'  somp'in'  out  o'  ye  'fore  he  leaves  ye. 
I  know  'em." 

Carmastic  stated  the  case  to  his  friends. 

It  seems  the  Indians  had  seen  white  men  in  the 
mountain  district  along  the  border  line  between  the 
United  States  and  Canada.  They  had  met  with  them 
also  on  the  north  trail  that  leads  down  among  the 
lakes  and  sloughs  toward  Boissevain  and  the  western 
slopes  where,  since  the  completion  seven  years  before 
of  the  great  iron  road  of  traffic  from  the  Atlantic  to 
the  Pacific,  and  the  consequent  rise  of  Boissevain  to 
a  small  business  centre,  here  and  there  a  white 
settler  had  begun  to  farm  the  rich  wheat  lands  of  the 
Souris.  They  found,  also,  that  timber  was  being 
taken  out  without  asking  leave. 

The  Indians  were  troubled.  They  read  the  signs  of 
the  tunes.  To  them  it  was  an  invasion  —  the  begin- 
ning of  the  end. 

For  centuries  this  mountain  district  had  been  to 
them  not  only  a  habitation  but  a  refuge.  Like  some 
great  Ark  of  the  Covenant  it  rises  from  out  the 


90  Out  of  the  Silences 

treeless  plateau-plains  of  Dakota  on  the  American 
side,  and  out  of  the  rolling  prairies  of  the  Souris  on 
the  Canadian.  For  centuries  they  had  claimed  it 
for  their  very  own ;  generations  had  lived  in  it,  wor- 
shipped in  it,  and  fought  to  preserve  their  temple  in 
the  wilderness.  Now  that  Dread  Thing,  Progress, 
was  threatening  to  deprive  the  poor  remnant  of  the 
Crees  inhabiting  it  of  their  last  refuge,  of  their  altars 
and  their  homes. 

No  wonder  the  Indians  were  troubled  in  their  souls. 

Carmastic  had  come  to  ask  his  little  white  friend 
to  write  to  a  man  of  power  in  far  distant  Ottawa  about 
this  matter.  Would  he  do  it? 

For  a  moment  the  boy  hesitated.  The  pony 
fraud  loomed  large  before  him.  But  he  told  himself 
it  was  not  Carmastic's  fault;  the  medicine-man  had 
smoked  the  famed  peace  pipe  with  him,  Bob  Colla- 
more,  a  white  man's  son,  and  there  was  but  one  thing 
to  do  —  as  he  had  established  himself  in  the  medicine- 
man's good  graces,  he  must  continue  to  keep  in  them. 
He  felt  the  sacred  shell  within  his  shirt.  For  all 
he  knew  it  might  really  be  something  of  the  Great 
Spirit.  He  did  not  wish  to  offend  Him,  but  it  should 
not  be  "an  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,"  as 
in  the  Book  —  not  this  time ! 

"I  will  write  all  your  words  to  the  man  at  Ottawa 
and  send  them  through  the  trader  in  Boissevain." 

The  boy  brought  paper  and  pencil.  The  old 
Indian  dictated.  It  was  short  and  to  the  point. 
When  the  boy  had  finished,  Carmastic  rose  to  go. 

"I  will  fetch  the  pony  for  you,  Carmastic." 

"I  have  no  pony  with  me,"  he  answered.  "I 
walk  over  the  north  trail."  He  started  towards 
the  woods. 


The  Boy  91 

"I  say,  Plunket,  is  the  medicine-man  loony?"  Bob 
asked  in  utter  amazement. 

"No.  He's  got  the  levellest  head  from  here  to 
Riding  Mountain.  Don't  you  see  what  he's  at?" 

No,  Bob  did  not  see.  And  not  seeing,  and  Plunket 
not  enlightening  him,  —  he  was  enjoying  the  boy's 
perplexity  too  much,  —  Bob  dashed  after  the  Indian 
who  by  this  time  was  entering  the  woods. 

"Carmastic,  Carmastic,  wait  —  I'll  bring  your 
pony  over  to-morrow.  He  has  strayed  only  a  little 
way."  He  overtook  the  man  whose  long,  rapid, 
silent  stride  gave  no  hint  of  his  seventy  years.  Then 
Carmastic  halted  for  a  moment.  He  looked  down 
upon  the  eager  face,  and  smiled. 

"The  pony  is  Little  Owl's.  It  is  Little  Owl's  pay 
for  the  letter  that  shall  deliver  me  and  my  people 
from  the  curse  of  the  white  man's  ways  with  our  land." 

He  was  off  again  at  a  tremendous  pace.  Bob  stood 
watching  him  till  he  disappeared  along  the  trail 
through  the  dense  growth  of  aspen. 

"Well,  he  did  the  square  thing  anyway,"  was  all 
his  comment  to  the  saddle-maker  on  the  pony  trans- 
action, when  the  latter  was  caught  and  safe  in  the 
shed.  He  recognized  the  shell  as  a  gift,  a  peace 
offering;  but  the  pony  he  considered  merely  a  just 
payment  for  services  rendered. 

THE  QUEST 

i 

For  a  day  or  two  after  this  conversation  the  saddle- 
maker  noticed  that  the  boy  had  something  on  his 
mind.  He  had  learned  to  recognize  Bob's  varied 
moods.  In  this  present  one  he  was  taciturn  without 
being  sulky,  unnecessarily  irritable  at  times  when 


-92  Out  of  the  Silences 

spoken  to,  and  somewhat  negligent  of  the  usual  daily 
work  which  the  saddle-maker  for  the  boy's  benefit 
and  training  had  exacted  of  him.  Noting  all  this 
Bill  Plunket  knew  that  he  had  only  to  bide  the  boy's 
own  time  for  freeing  himself  of  some  load  that  gave 
evidence  of  burdening  his  conscience. 

On  the  third  day  Bob  spoke  out.  He  was  lying 
on  his  back  in  the  grass  before  the  hut.  His  knees 
were  flexed ;  his  hands  clasped  beneath  his  head ;  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  stars,  brilliantly  soft  in  their  great 
clustered  Milky  Way. 

"Is  a  lie  a  straight  lie  if  you  don't  tell  the  whole 
truth  'bout  things?" 

Plunket  worked  his  pipe  like  a  blast  furnace  for  a 
full  minute  before  he  spoke.  He  was  sitting  in  the 
doorway  of  the  hut. 

"That  depends,  Son,"  he  replied  between  puffs. 

"Depends  on  what?" 

"Whether  the  lie  is  a  low-down  crooked  lie  that's 
goin'  to  do  damage  to  somebody,  by  misleadin'  'em 
on  purpose  so  they'll  get  smashed  up,  or  a  lie  that's 
straight  enough  to  tell  with  a  clean  conscience  which 
is  the  kind  a  feller  tells  when  he  wants  to  throw  some- 
body, that's  nosin'  'round  into  what  ain't  none  of  his 
business,  off  the  scent." 

Bob  considered  this  definition  for  several  minutes; 
then  he  spoke  abruptly,  his  voice  unusually  loud  from 
some  intense  inward  excitement : 

"You  asked  me  t'other  day,  Plunket,  if  any  of 
the  Injuns  had  said  anything  to  me  'bout  the  mule  — 
an'  Jane.  I  said  'No.' "  He  waited  for  the  saddle- 
maker  to  speak  some  word  of  encouragement,  but 
this  was  not  forthcoming.  The  boy  perceived  that 
he  must  "go  it  alone"  —  a  lesson  his  friend  had  been 


The  Boy  93 

inculcating  for  the  past  three  years.  He  spoke 
again,  but  slowly,  feeling  his  way : 

"You  see  I  didn't  lie  then.  The  Injuns  never  said 
a  word  to  me  'bout  Jane  or  the  mule,  but"  —  he  hesi- 
tated —  "I  didn't  tell  you  the  truth  just  the  same." 

Plunket  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth.  "How's 
that?"  The  tone  was  uncompromising,  and  Bob 
prepared  to  plunge  into  the  midst  of  things  in  partic- 
ular; but  first  he  took  the  precaution  to  make  his 
dive  according  to  rules. 

"You  said  Injuns,  didn't  you?" 

"I  said  just  that  —  Injuns." 

"An'  you  meant  Kinni-kinnik's  pa,  an*  ma,  and  the 
whole  kit  of  'em  over  in  the  north  village,  didn't 
you?" 

"I  sure  did." 

"An'  you  didn't  count  Kinni-kinnik  as  one  of  the 
Injuns  when  you  said  it,  did  you?" 

"Can't  say  as  I  thought  o'  her  —  no,  I  didn't." 
Plunket  admitted  this  with  a  fairly  good  grace,  for 
he  saw  ahead  to  a  turn  in  the  three  years'  blind  trail. 

"Well,  you  see  I  thought  you  didn't  mean  her;  so 
when  I  said  'No',  I  didn't  reelly  lie,  but—"  He 
stopped  short. 

The  saddle-maker  put  his  pipe  again  between  his 
lips  and  began  to  puff  vigorously,  but  in  silence. 

"Kinni-kinnik  knows  things  the  Injuns  said,  an* 
she  told  me." 

"Did  she  tell  ye  not  to  tell?" 

"Nope;  I  can  tell  you  all  right,  only  —  I  don't 
want  to." 

"Wot's  up?    Bad  news?" 

"Not  bad  exactly.  It's  'bout  you,  Plunket  —  an* 
me.  'T'isn't  true,  an'  it's  rotten  —  an'  I  don't  want 


94  Out  of  the  Silences 

to  tell."  With  eagerness  he  blurted  o'ut  this  bald 
statement  as  if  wanting  to  convince  the  saddle-maker 
that  it  was  best  to  let  bad  enough  alone. 

It  was  Plunket's  turn  to  consider.  What  had  the 
boy  got  hold  of  through  the  little  Indian  girl  that  he 
was  loath  to  tell?  He  had  been  kind  to  Jane,  too 
kind ;  she  had  taken  unfair  advantage  of  his  kindness 
and  his  absence.  What  could  it  be  that  was  rotten  ? 
He  was  puzzled.  Evidently  Bob  was  willing  to  tell, 
but  ashamed  to.  In  any  case  the  boy  needed  en- 
couragement. 

"Ye'd  better  get  it  off  your  stomach,  Son.  Rotten 
stuff  don't  set  well  if  it's  been  kept  there  too  long. 
Out  with  it.  Make  a  clean  breast  o'  it.  I  can 
stand  it  if  ye  can." 

Without  any  more  preliminaries  Bob  stated  the 
case. 

"  Kmni-kinnik  heard  her  ma  tellin'  her  pa  that  you 
are  my  father  and  I  am  your  son,  Plunket.  7  know 
better,  an'  told  her  so;  an'  what  she  said  is  a  low- 
down  crooked  lie,  just  as  you  said,  isn't  it?" 

The  saddle-maker's  sense  of  injustice  flamed 
suddenly  into  the  white  heat  of  anger.  His  pipe  fell 
from  his  lips  in  his  effort  for  control.  When  he 
spoke  his  voice  was  husky,  but  quietly  level. 

"It's  a  black,  tarnation  lie,  Son,  that's  wot  that 
is."  He  drew  a  deep  breath  and  mechanically  put 
his  foot  on  the  spilled  and  blinking  tobacco.  "D'ye 
know  whether  Kinni-kinnik's  ma  got  that  from 
Jane?" 

"No,  she  didn't.  Kinni-kinnik  told  me  her  ma 
said  an  Injun  from  a  reservation  on  the  Missouri,  a 
Sioux,  came  through  here  on  his  way  up  north,  'bout 
two  months  'fore  you  came  back,  an'  he  stopped  at 


The  Boy  95 

the  hut  here  an'  told  Jane  a  man  of  his  tribe  had  been 
to  a  fort  in  Dakota  an'  seen  you  an'  a  white  boy,  — 
that's  me.  An'  that  I  was  your  son  an'  a  white 
squaw's  you  was  livin'  with  there,  —  he  meant  our 
post-washerwoman  who  was  so  good  to  us  an'  took 
care  o'  us  when  we  was  gettin'  well ;  an'  Jane  told 
her  sister." 

"By  gum!"  This  was  all  Plunket  said.  Any- 
thing more  was  at  that  moment  beyond  his  powers 
of  expression,  for  the  flashlight  of  Bob's  revelation 
suddenly  illuminated  Jane's  predicament,  interpreted 
her  feelings  towards  him,  and  the  whole  meaning 
of  her  precipitous  flight  with  most  of  his  personal 
property. 

"Bet  ye  Jane  wouldn't  stand  for  no  such  doin's." 
Plunket  was  thinking  aloud  rather  than  speaking  to 
the  boy. 

"That's  what  Kinni-kinnik  said  her  ma  said.  She 
said  she  did  just  right  to  take  Tom  an'  Jerry  an'  her 
things,  —  she  wasn't  goin'  to  leave  anything  for  a 
white  squaw,  she  said,  —  an'  go  back  to  her  father  in 
Minnesota.  You  said  you  knew  Long  John." 

"I  guessed  as  much."  The  saddle-maker  spoke 
with  a  certain  shrewd  satisfaction ;  then  he  muttered 
as  if  to  himself,  "Tough  on  the  old  girl,  no  mistake." 

Hearing  this,  Bob  felt  encouraged  to  tell  all  he 
knew  —  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  as  the  saddle-maker 
had  suggested. 

"There's  something  else,  Plunket.  Want  to 
know?" 

"All  favors  thankfully  received,  Son."  Plunket 
smiled,  wondering  what  more  was  to  be  revealed  con- 
cerning his  squaw. 

There  was  no  further  hesitancy  in  Bob's  speech; 


96  Out  of  the  Silences 

on  the  contrary  his  natural  eloquence,  which  had 
suffered  a  decided  check  in  his  attempt  to  worm  him- 
self satisfactorily  out  of  his  "lie",  flowed  freely  as  he 
warmed  to  his  special  pleading. 

"You  see,  Plunket,  Jane  wasn't  married  to  you  — " 

"Wasn't,  eh?"  Plunket  spoke  sharply,  but  Bob 
gave  no  heed  to  warning  notes ;  he  had  a  certain 
pleasurable  duty  to  perform  towards  his  well-loved 
friend. 

" — Not  redly;  they  all  know  it  —  the  Injuns. 
You  see,  if  you  wasn't  a  white  man,  they  wouldn't 
think  anything  'bout  it.  But  they  say  white  men 
redly  marry ;  an'  Jane  said  —  so  Kinni-kinnik  told  me 
her  ma  told  her  pa  —  that  she  was  as  good  as  a 
white  woman,  an'  was  goin'  to  be  treated  like  a  white 
woman  by  a  white  man,  or  get  out." 

"Can't  blame  Jane  for  that,  Son,  seeing  she's  a 
woman,  can  ye?" 

"She  said  that,  Plunket,  'cause  her  feelings  was 
hurt  'bout  what  that  Sioux  man  said  he  heard  'bout 
you  an'  me.  If  I  was  you,  I'd  reelly  marry  her; 
then  she'd  feel  all  right,  an'  Tom  an'  Jerry  would  be 
reelly  'Plunkets.'  See?" 

The  saddle-maker  nodded  gravely.  "Yes,  Son,  I 
see ;  an'  mebbe,  —  only  mebbe,  mind  ye,  —  I'll  marry 
her.  Can't  have  Jane's  feelings  hurt  much  longer, 
eh?  An'  I  guess  it's  'bout  time  Tom  an'  Jerry  got 
acquainted  with  their  father." 

Bob  doubled  himself  with  a  spring  and  brought 
himself  to  his  feet.  It  was  dark,  or  nearly  so,  and  he 
didn't  mind  patting  Plunket  on  the  shoulder,  saying 
joyfully  —  such  was  his  faith  in  this  man : 

"I  knew  you'd  do  it,  Plunket.  I  told  Kinni- 
kinnik  you  would  just  as  soon  as  you  knew  'bout  her 


The  Boy  97 

feelings.  Gee,  Kinni-kinnik's  ma  hadn't  no  use  for 
me  for  'bout  two  years.  I  didn't  know  what  ailed 
her.  But  she's  all  right  now.  When  will  you  get 
married,  Plunket?" 

It  was  then  that  the  night  was  made  vocal  with 
laughter.  Bill  Plunket  laughed  till  he  could  laugh  no 
longer.  Bob  had  not  heard  him  laugh  like  that  since 
the  night  when  McGillie  inventoried  the  "things" 
Jane  had  taken  with  her  when  she  left  the  saddle- 
maker's  empty  bed  and  long  unreplenished  board.  .  . 
2 

Then  they  discussed  ways  and  means,  for  the  saddle- 
maker's  decision  had  been  instant  to  seek  out  Jane 
and  bring  her  back  to  the  mountain  and  his  hut. 

"I'll  tell  ye  wot  we'll  do,  Son;  we'll  travel  like 
white  men  —  go  by  train  for  a  piece  'long  down  to 
Bemidji  after  I  sell  off  three  or  four  saddles  to  the 
settlers  on  the  Dakota  side.  They're  beginning  to 
come  in  fast  now  and  take  up  farms  there.  I  guess 
Carmastic  wasn't  far  off  the  trail  when  he  said  they'd 
have  all  the  Injun  lands  'fore  long." 

"You  mean  ride  on  the  cars?"  The  boy  could 
scarcely  believe  his  ears  —  to  ride  in  the  cars  like 
white  men,  to  see  white  men,  to  be  with  white  men ! 
All  this  sounded  unreal.  The  saddle-maker  smiled 
at  the  excitement  visible  in  the  boy's  face,  audible 
in  his  voice. 

"Yep,  after  we've  sold  the  saddles.  We'll  take 
the  old  horse  an'  the  pony,  an'  the  bitch,  —  couldn't 
leave  her  behind ;  she  wouldn't  eat  'thout  ye,  —  an 
trail  'long  with  our  blankets  rolled  up  behind  us  till 
we  hit  the  Red  River  at  Grand  Forks,  an'  then  we'll 
ride  on  the  train  from  there  to  Fosston,  Son,  an' 
ship  the  horse  an'  pony  so  we  can  get  from  there  to 


98  Out  of  the  Silences 

Bemidji ;  we'll  sure  need  the  animiles  in  Minnesota. 
I  tell  ye  it's  a  great  State.  Ye  can  drive  an  ox-team 
most  anywheres  over  it  'cept  clear  up  north.  It's  a 
good  time  to  go  too.  Injuns  visit  a  lot  'bout  this 
time.  Kinni-kinnik  and  her  ma  and  the  boys  must 
be  there  by  now.  She  told  me  she  was  goin'  to  visit 
her  father;  they  have  mighty  good  times  visitin' 
together,  Injuns,  when  they  have  enough  to  eat  an' 
it's  good  weather.  They've  been  gone  most  three 
weeks,  ain't  they?" 

"Yep.  Kinni-kinnik  told  me  they  was  goin'  to 
stay  till  snow  flies.  She  said  they're  goin'  to  gather  a 
lot  o'  wild  rice  to  bring  home  for  the  winter.  When 
can  we  start?" 

"Next  week;  but  ye  needn't  lose  any  sleep  'cause 
we  can't  get  out  to-morrow." 

3 

It  may  happen  once  or  twice  in  a  man's  life  that  an 
event,  seemingly  of  the  most  commonplace  order, 
suddenly  opens  up  such  a  vista  of  possibilities,  hopes, 
ambitions,  so  extends  the  horizon  of  his  previous 
straitened  environment,  as  to  revolutionize  in  a 
manner  his  whole  attitude  towards  life.  Such  an 
event,  in  the  fourteenth  year  of  this  boy's  life,  was 
this  change  from  the  Turtle  Mountain  country  to 
that  of  northern  Minnesota. 

At  the  time,  the  two  great  trunk  lines,  the  one 
passing  through  southern  Manitoba,  the  other 
through  northern  Dakota,  denned  the  limits  of  the 
Turtle  Mountain  region  on  the  north  and  south. 
Already  branch  lines  from  these  railroads  were  being 
laid  to  open  up  the  land  for  settlement  and  tap  re- 
sources on  the  rolling  prairies  of  the  Souris  to  the 
north,  and  the  Dakota  plains  to  the  south.  To  ride 


The  Boy  99 

down  the  northern  mountain  slopes  through  the  lake 
region  to  Boissevain ;  to  watch  the  snorting  engine 
bring  the  incoming  train ;  to  see  it  pull  out  from  the 
station  and  race  away  over  the  prairies  till  it  was  lost 
on  the  distant  horizon  —  these  had  been  thus  far 
the  great  events  in  Bob's  short  life.  But  these  were 
mere  excursions ;  the  mountain  and  the  hut  remained 
to  him  all  he  knew  of  home.  He  had  never  been 
beyond  Boissevain  since  his  entrance  into  his  paradise. 
During  the  first  two  years  the  saddle-maker  made 
two  successive  annual  trading-trips;  McGillie  and 
Bob  were  then  left  to  look  after  what  stock  there  was 
and  provide  for  themselves. 

On  the  present  trip,  Plunket  prepared  to  combine 
pleasure,  business,  and  the  quest  for  Jane. 

t  4 

Both  man  and  boy  enjoyed  their  overland  journey 
to  the  Red  River  —  the  man  because,  being  about  to 
sell  his  white  man's  birthright  in  order  to  satisfy  his 
honor,  he  knew  that  once  again  in  the  matrimonial 
yoke  he  might  never  enjoy  another  such ;  the  boy, 
for  the  reason  that  the  so-called  quest  for  Jane  resolved 
itself  for  him  into  a  great  adventure  into  the  white 
man's  world. 

They  took  it  leisurely  during  the  last  hot  days  in 
August,  journeying  down  the  gently  rolling  south- 
eastern slopes  of  the  mountain  country  and  through 
the  lake  region  that  centres  about  Minne-waukan  in 
eastern  Dakota.  They  experienced  a  few  days  of 
scorching  sun,  and  as  many  burning  breathless  nights. 
Tempests,  too,  and  dust  storms  obliged  them  at  times 
to  flee  to  cover.  But  there  were  many  compensations. 
Here  and  there,  as  they  drew  near  to  the  Valley  of  the 
Red  River,  they  found  the  fringing  shade  of  trees 


ioo  Out  of  the  Silences 

along  the  banks  of  streams ;  here  and  there  the  boy 
saw  one  of  the  great  wheat  farms  of  those  days,  twenty 
thousand  acres  of  ripened  grain  —  a  pale  golden 
prairie  sea  undulating,  beneath  the  pressure  of  the 
wind,  wave  upon  wave  to  the  deep,  deep  blue  of  the 
far  horizon.  The  sound  of  it  at  night,  when  they 
camped  on  its  border,  he  never  forgot.  It  was  like 
no  other  sound  then  or  afterwards  known  to  him. 

Food  in  abundance  they  found  at  the  scattered 
farmhouses.  The  saddle-maker  was  known  to  some  of 
the  men,  and  the  saddles  found  ready  purchasers. 
The  hard-working  women  of  the  family  were  ever 
ready  to  welcome  both  man  and  boy,  for  they  gave 
no  trouble,  slept  in  the  manger  or,  preferably,  rolled 
in  their  blankets  of  a  cool  night,  in  the  lee  of  a  giant 
hayrick,  horse  and  pony  hobbled,  the  bitch  on  guard. 

The  night  sounds  of  the  prairie  were  not  those  of 
the  mountain ;  they  were  not  only  unlike,  but  far  more 
mysterious  to  the  boy  because  of  the  open  vastness 
around,  beneath,  and  above  him.  The  sun  set  in 
unearthly  skies  of  glorious  color ;  the  stars  greatened, 
fairly  palpitating  luminous  light  in  that  marvellous 
atmosphere  of  the  prairies.  All  about  him  the  soft 
dark  was  sweet  with  the  scent  of  dried  herb  or  grass. 

Once  only  they  slept  in  a  bed  with  sheets,  a  luxury 
almost  forgotten  by  the  boy.  The  woman  of  the 
house  called  him  "Son."  She  begged  him  to  remain 
with  her  and  her  husband,  promising  him  much  — 
even  to  her  little  dead  son's  portion  of  the  land  and 
its  increase. 

Thus  it  came  about  that,  having  absorbed  the 
various  impressions  of  the  new,  having  anticipated 
for  nearly  three  weeks  the  surprise  of  each  new  day 
and  revelled  in  the  wonder  nights  of  the  great  out-of- 


The  Boy  101 

doors,  the  boy  mounted  the  steps  of  the  train  at 
Grand  Forks  with  never  a  thought  of  the  mountain 
that  had  been  to  him  his  home  —  all  that  he  knew  of 
one  —  for  the  past  three  years. 

But,  after  the  crowning  adventure  of  the  railroad 
journey  and  the  detraining  at  the  station  of  Bemidji, 
there  was  left  only  a  straight  prosaic  course  to  Long 
John's  hut  —  and  Jane. 

The  commonplace  finding  of  the  squaw,  —  she  was 
boiling  fish  in  a  kettle  over  a  fire  outside  the  hut,  and 
neither  Tom  nor  Jerry  was  in  evidence,  —  the  recon- 
ciliation that  followed  at  some  hour  unknown  to 
Bob,  her  commonplace  marriage  with  "bell,  ring  and 
book  ",  proved  to  be  for  the  boy  an  anti-climax  to 
those  first  adventurous  three  weeks. 

It  was  all  "so  slow",  as  he  wrote  McGillie  when 
telling  him  of  the  marriage  of  Plunket  and  his  squaw. 
He  further  stated  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  pony 
and  the  bitch,  and  a  little  tepee  all  for  himself  with 
a  private  campfire ;  if  he  had  not  been  left  to  roam 
the  forest  at  will  and  accompany  Long  John  north- 
wards to  help  him  gather  the  wild  rice  in  some  of  the 
shallows  among  the  headwaters  of  various  streams 
and  harvest  it  from  a  canoe,  he  could  not  have 
stood  it. 

Even  Kinni-kinnik  failed  to  entertain  him. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  was  that,  having  sat  at  the 
white  man's  table,  the  well-known  Indian  environment 
had  no  attraction  for  him  in  these  autumn  days.  Con- 
sequently he  was  off  along  the  logging  roads,  exploring 
logging  camps  that  were  being  prepared  for  the  winter, 
taking  the  girth  of  trees  and  learning  their  age  by 
counting  the  rings  in  white  pine,  basswood,  maple, 
or  oak.  He  was  busy  fashioning  with  Long  John's  help 


IO2  Out  of  the  Silences 

a  small  birch  bark  canoe  for  his  very  own;  "nosin' 
'bout",  as  Plunket  called  it  —  acquiring  something 
new  day  by  day,  by  reading  a  line  or  a  page  in  Mother 
Nature's  text-book  of  the  forests,  or  by  fishing  in 
strange  waters ;  to  sum  up  :  rounding  off,  in  the  new 
country  of  the  North  Star  his  boyhood's  out-of-door 
education,  to  the  forgetting  often  of  Kinni-kinnik,  the 
ignoring  of  her  small  brothers,  who  could  speak  but 
a  word  or  two  of  English,  the  neglecting  of  Tom  and 
Jerry,  who  were  his  little  half-breed  shadows  when- 
ever they  could  keep  track  of  him. 

The  new  had  for  the  time  supplanted  the  old,  or, 
rather,  the  boy  was  outgrowing  the  Indian  environ- 
ment and  seeking  for  something  that  should  supply 
its  place. 


Ill 

A  FOREST  INTERLUDE 


Ill 

A  FOREST  INTERLUDE 


IT  is  the  last  of  October,  snow  month  of  the  northern 
Indians.  The  sky,  a  dome  of  hard  opaque  gray,  shuts 
out  even  the  nicker  of  a  gleam  from  the  afternoon  sun. 
Apparently  there  is  no  wind  stirring,  but  from  time 
to  tune  a  strange  noise  is  audible:  a  sound  as  of 
shrinking  surface-roots,  crackling  moss,  contracting 
bark-fibres  on  millions  of  forest  trees  and,  inter- 
mingled, those  curious  faint  subtones  heard  over 
great  areas  of  fresh  surface-waters,  in  a  country 
that  has  never  been  drained,  when  those  waters  are 
chilled  almost  to  the  freezing  point. 

In  the  north,  in  the  south,  hi  east  and  west,  lie 
chains  of  lakes  lustreless  as  smoke  topaz  under  the 
neutral  tinted  sky;  and  not  only  chains  but  loops 
and  whorls  of  them,  encircling,  interlacing  the  vast 
swamps  of  cedar  and  tamarack  from  which  and  into 
which  many  of  them  drain.  A  few,  however,  are 
set  in  rocky  basins ;  these  stretch  away  to  the  north- 
east and  the  Canadian  border,  and  all  about  them  are 
acres  of  massive  boulders  piled  high  on  the  burden- 
bearing  earth  which  is  sterile  save  for  the  Jack  pine, 
the  mule  among  forest  trees,  that  finds  sustenance 
where  other  vegetation  fails. 
105 


106  Out  of  the  Silences 

In  the  northern  central  and  northeastern  counties 
of  this  land  of  Minnesota,  there  are  great  areas 
densely  covered  with  black  spruce,  tamarack,  balm 
of  Gilead,  and  Jack  pine;  but  south  of  them  the 
country  as  a  whole  is  forested  with  a  comparatively 
young  growth,  for  at  times  mighty  fires  have  raged 
within  it  —  mighty  fires  and  the  devastating  hand  of 
man.  Here  and  there,  however,  are  to  be  found  large 
tracts  of  the  "old  forest"  where  reign  the  giant  white 
and  Norway  pine.  Their  massed  green  denseness 
lends  to  this  land  a  look  of  eternal  youth. 
2 

Upon  a  trail  through  one  of  these  heavily  timbered 
belts  a  party  of  four  are  just  entering.  They  have 
crossed  the  two  miles  of  fairly  open  country  between 
the  lake,  where  the  canoes  have  been  left,  and  the 
forest,  and  are  intent  on  reaching  their  goal  ahead  of 
the  threatening  snow.  They  enter  the  half  twilight 
of  the  big  woods  in  single  file:  Antoine,  the  guide, 
half  Indian,  half  French-Canadian;  behind  him  a 
young  girl,  her  father  following ;  and  bringing  up  the 
rear  Long  John,  a  Chippewa,  assistant  guide  and 
bearer  of  the  outfit-pack  that  is  to  make  for  their 
comfort  in  whatever  rude  camp  they  may  find  shelter 
for  the  coming  night. 

"You  are  sure  you  saw  smoke,  Antoine?"  The 
man  spoke  insistently;  his  voice  was  jerky  from 
nervous  tension. 

"For  sure,"  the  half-breed  replied  without  turning 
his  head  or  slackening  his  pace.  "Mebbe  Hinjuns; 
I  tink  no.  I  tink  camp.  De  logmans  'ave  toP  mah 
las'  time :  dis  time  dey  come  w'en  come  de  firs'  snow. 
Heem  come,"  he  added  emphatically. 

He  halted  suddenly,  listening.    The  three  halted 


A  Forest  Interlude  107 

with  him ;  they,  too,  listened  intently.  Not  a  mov- 
ment  among  the  pinetops,  yet  there  was  audible  a 
soft  hissing  rustle  that  grew  sharper  and  gained  in 
volume  as  the  fine  dry  snow  crystals  permeated  the 
vast  stretch  of  woods,  sifted  through  the  foliage,  and 
settled  in  the  matting  of  dead  needles,  dry  leaves, 
and  heavy  underbrush. 

"'Heem  come',  sure  enough,  Tony,"  said  the  girl. 

Her  voice  was  gay  with  the  joy  of  youth  and  the 
stimulation  of  adventure.  She  threw  back  her  head, 
turning  her  face  squarely  upward  that  it  might  catch 
the  fine  mist  of  snow  coming  so  suddenly  from  a 
windless  somewhere  as  to  dim  the  country  behind 
them,  and  falling  through  the  pines  with  something 
of  the  sound  and  effect  of  gauze  drop  curtains. 

Snow  in  the  forest !  The  girl  was  enjoying  a  new 
experience  and  realizing  that  with  it  a  new  world 
was  all  about  her.  Her  father,  on  the  contrary, 
fidgetted  as  he  listened. 

"We  mustn't  get  caught  out  in  a  blizzard  in  this 
God-forsaken  place,"  he  said  shortly;  "let's  get  on." 

"Mgh."  The  monosyllable  expressed  the  half- 
breed's  amused  pity  for  those  he  called  his  "city- 
mans."  He  spoke  reassuringly : 

"Trail,  he  good ;  I  mak'  heem  so."  He  pulled  his 
cap  down  over  his  eyes  to  indicate  he  could  make 
it  blindfolded;  then  took  it  off  to  blow  from  the 
top  the  delicate  white  covering,  fine  as  hoar  frost. 
"Pouf!  He  like  dat,  yo  blissar' ;  yassire!  An' now 
yo  no  mak'  worree  for  not'ing,  hein?" 

They  went  forward  again,  walking  for  the  most  part 
in  silence.  Once  a  grouse  drummed  in  the  distance. 
The  trail  grew  more  difficult.  Twice  it  crossed 
clearings  of  many  acres  in  which  dead  timber,  stumps 


io8  Out  of  the  Silences 

and  slash  impeded  them,  at  times  blocking  their 
way. 

At  the  edge  of  the  forest,  where  the  trail  reentered 
it,  the  girl  stooped  without  stopping  and  from  the 
bare  ground  beneath  a  spruce  caught  up  a  gray  goose- 
quill.  She  stuck  it  into  the  band  of  her  close-fitting 
cap;  it  gave  to  her  head  the  challenging  jauntiness 
of  an  Indian  chief's  Calumet-eagle  feather. 

"Look,  Tony,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  quill, 
"we  are  following  the  gray  goose." 

The  half-breed,  who  had  turned,  smiled.  The 
feather  was  a  good  omen ;  none  knew  it  better  than 
he. 

"Yas,  she  is  nikh-ka,  de  gray  goose.  She  mak'  — 
wot  you  call  hit  ?  —  look.  Wan  half -hour,  an'  we 
fin'  camp."  He  spoke  encouragingly,  for  he  heard 
the  heavy  quickened  breathing  of  his  "city-man"  and 
knew  his  city  wind  would  not  last  longer  than  that. 

"And  you  think  you  can  smell  smoke,  too,  An- 
toine?"  His  city-man  panted  rather  than  spoke, 
attempting  a  bit  of  raillery  to  warm  his  own  thoroughly 
chilled  ardor  for  prospecting. 

"Why,  Daddy  dear,  you're  winded,  no  mistake," 
said  the  girl  turning  and  looking  at  him  somewhat 
anxiously. 

Antoine's  large  inflated  nostrils  snuffed  the  air  like 
a  red  deer's  when  at  morning  he  breaks  from  covert. 

"Yas,  I  smell  smoke;  courage,  monfrdre." 

"Courage,  Daddy;  it's  our  last  lap."  The  girl's 
voice  was  still  fresh  and  joyous;  there  was  no  hint 
of  fatigue  in  it,  for  was  not  this  world  of  a  forest 
besnowed  a  new  enchantment  for  her?  Was  not 
adventure  with  its  alluring  uncertainties,  its  charm 
of  possibilities  still  before  her  in  the  unknown  camp  ? 


A  Forest  Interlude  109 

For  two  hours  already  they  had  followed  the  trail 
from  the  lake.  It  was  still  an  hour  to  the  sun's 
setting;  but  in  the  forest  gloom,  with  the  steady 
falling  of  the  fine  dry  snow  about  them,  it  might 
well  have  set  for  them  an  hour  before.  There  was  no 
stopping  here  for  rest  or  breathing  spell.  The  half- 
breed  and  the  Chippewa  knew  their  land  and  its  ways  : 
the  ways  of  its  late  and  early  snows,  of  which  latter 
the  present  was  a  good  sample,  quickly  come  and 
more  quickly  gone;  its  summer  rams  and  spring 
floods,  its  frost  and  heat,  its  winds  and  calms.  They 
knew  its  portages,  its  trails,  the  intricate  waterways 
of  its  ten  thousand  lakes,  and  now  with  the  first 
sough  of  a  rising  wind  through  the  forest  the  two 
exchanged  a  few  monosyllables  of  understanding 
concerning  the  condition  facing  them ;  then  they  set  a 
more  rapid  pace.  They  knew  there  was  shelter  of 
some  kind  not  far  ahead  and  possibly  rest,  but  none 
on  the  trail. 

The  wind  increasing  momently  in  violence  was 
against  them  for  the  last  half-hour.  The  gloom  was 
deepening.  Suddenly  the  woods  thinned,  lightened, 
and  opened  on  a  small  clearing ;  crossing  it  they  found 
themselves  before  a  low  shed-like  building  covered 
with  bark.  It  was  protected  on  the  north  by  what 
looked  to  be  unpenetrable  forest.  Warmth  and 
shelter  were  surely  here.  From  the  two  windows 
shone  dim  lamplight  and  the  uncertain  flashing  of 
wood  flame.  Antoine  stepped  to  one  and  looked  in. 
A  hound  bayed  suddenly.  Without  ceremony  the 
half-breed  opened  the  door  and  entered,  the  others 
following. 

At  one  end  of  the  room  a  lighted  lantern,  swung 
from  a  chain  hooked  over  a  rafter,  flared  in  the 


no  Out  of  the  Silences 

sudden  draught.  Across  the  other  end  was  stretched 
a  rope  over  which  hung  curtains  of  some  bright 
colored  calico,  with  improvised  valences  in  the  form 
of  thick  quilts  and  coarse  blankets,  gray  and  brown. 

As  she  entered  the  girl  saw  all  this  in  detail.  She 
saw  as  well  three  dark-skinned  men  who  rose  from 
their  makeshift  seats  on  some  packing  boxes.  She 
saw  the  improvised  wall-closet,  likewise  fashioned 
from  a  box ;  also  in  the  corner  nearest  the  door  some 
straw  and  on  it  a  hound  with  her  litter ;  and  —  did 
she  see  aright  ?  —  in  the  farther  corner  among  more 
straw,  a  pony,  small  and  wiry,  nosing  a  bale  of  hay. 
Her  father  sat  down  exhausted  on  a  pile  of  burlap 
near  the  door.  The  girl  at  once  gave  her  whole 
thought  to  him. 

"Oh,  Daddy,  you  poor  dear,  I'll  have  some  hot  tea 
for  you  in  less  than  ten  winks ;  help  me,  John." 

The  Chippewa  understood  her.  He  opened  the 
outfit  bag.  She  thrust  in  her  hand,  took  out  a  can 
of  tea,  a  pudgy  capacious  teapot  of  enamelled  iron- 
ware, a  tin  of  bacon  and  a  loaf  of  bread. 

Antoine,  meanwhile,  was  interrogating  the  three 
men  in  all  the  languages  known  to  him:  Canuck- 
French,  half-breed  French-English,  Chippewa, 
Swedish  fragments  he  had  learned  from  lumber- 
men; he  tried  even  the  Indian  sign  language. 
The  men  lifted  their  eyebrows,  shrugged  their 
shoulders,  and  scratched  their  heads ;  one,  a  youth, 
grinned  broadly. 

"Tarn  fool,"  muttered  the  half-breed  in  exaspera- 
tion, "why  dey  no  speak  not'ing." 

The  girl  laughed  aloud  at  his  perplexity.  With 
teapot  in  one  hand,  frying  pan  in  the  other,  she  turned 
to  him. 


A  Forest  Interlude  in 

"Now  let  me  try,  Tony ;  these  things  speak  louder 
than  words  to  any  man,  I  don't  care  who  he  is." 

She  flourished  pot  and  pan  eloquently  before  the 
six  beady  eyes  that  were  fixed  upon  her,  and  indicated 
by  expressive  pantomime  that  she  would  like  to  help 
herself  to  boiling  water  from  a  big  iron  kettle  on  the 
stove.  As  one  man  the  three  nodded  assent,  and 
were  rewarded  with  a  smile,  a  smile  that  generally 
obtained  for  her  whatever  she  wanted  from  man, 
woman,  or  child.  It  was  an  unconscious  expression 
of  frank  comradeship,  of  willingness  to  meet  an  in- 
dividual a  little  more  than  half  way  just  because  he 
was  a  human ;  of  a  direct  trust  in  men  and  animals 
and  the  big  world  of  which  they  are  the  factors.  Tak- 
ing note  of  this  smile,  the  men  gesticulated  assurance 
that  they  placed  stove,  water,  duck-soup,  which  she 
sniffed  appreciatively  as  it  bubbled  appetizingly  in 
another  kettle,  tin  dipper,  boxes  and  entire  room  at 
her  disposal. 

Antoine  sighed  audible  relief  at  this  happy  turn 
of  affairs  and  busied  himself  with  setting  out  the  tin 
camp  service  on  one  of  the  packing  boxes.  Long 
John  dried  some  of  their  snow-wet  belongings  behind 
the  stove. 

The  girl  tossed  her  cap  to  her  father  and  began 
operations.  In  a  few  minutes  the  bacon  was  frizzling ; 
together  with  the  crisp  aroma  of  toasting  bread  it 
stung  the  nostrils  pleasantly.  Soon  the  nose  of  the 
fat  teapot  was  steaming  delectably.  Meanwhile  the 
ever  increasing  south  wind  went  roaring  through  the 
forest  with  the  sounding  rise  and  fall  of  heavy  surf  on  a 
beach  of  shingle,  and  changed  the  fine  dry  snow 
crystals  to  wet  clinging  flakes  that  plastered  the 
windows  white. 


112  Out  of  the  Silences 

The  girl,  having  first  heartened  her  father  with  a 
big  tin  cup  of  tea,  beckoned  cheerily  as  summons  to 
the  men  to  be  seated  on  the  boxes  which  were  ranged 
across  the  end  of  the  room  nearest  the  hound's 
corner.  She  indicated  to  her  hosts  that  they  were 
expected  to  place  their  kettle  of  soup  on  a  box  and 
feast  with  them ;  but  they  hesitated  to  accept  the 
invitation.  The  girl  looked  her  surprise. 

It  was  then  that  the  youth  giggled  in  a  voice  that 
beginning  in  the  bass  ended  in  a  cracked  falsetto. 
He  glanced  towards  the  curtains  at  the  other  end  of 
ihe  room.  The  girl's  eyes  followed  his,  for  she  was 
consumed  with  curiosity  to  know  what  might  be 
behind  the  scenes.  She  saw  a  face  looking  out 
between  them,  a  young  girlish  face,  long  and  thin, 
with  deep-set  brilliant  eyes,  a  wide  smiling  mouth, 
the  reddest  of  red  lips,  and  between  them  strong, 
white,  even  teeth  Just  over  it  was  visible  the 
dark,  deeply  lined  face  of  a  woman  who  was  peering 
out  eagerly,  intently,  yet  with  a  certain  timidity  as 
if  not  sure  of  the  meaning  of  these  strangers'  presence. 
Seeing  them,  the  girl  exclaimed  joyously : 

"Oh,  Daddy,  if  you'll  believe  me  there's  a  real 
live  girl  here ;  just  what  I  was  wanting  to  make  me 
feel  downright  comfy  in  this  wilderness." 

With  that  she  ran  with  outstretched  hands  towards 
the  two  within  the  curtains,  and  drew  them  out  into 
the  room,  while  showing  her  joy  in  their  presence  so 
conclusively  that  they  quite  lost  their  shyness  and 
seemed  to  enter  gladly  into  the  gala  spirit  of  the  girl's 
adventure. 

The  woman  and  girl  brought  wooden  bowls  and 
spoons  and  a  curiously  shaped  loaf  of  gray  bread 
from  the  improvised  wall-closet  beside  the  stove. 


A  Forest  Interlude  113 

They  set  them  forth  on  the  box  nearest  the  pony's 
corner  and  placed  the  steaming  kettle  of  soup  in  the 
midst.  Thereupon  they  all  fell  to.' 

Between  mouthfuls  they  watched  the  stranger  girl 
and  her  ways  which  were  so  unlike  their  own;  for 
not  only  did  she  serve  her  father,  and  Antoine,  and 
Long  John,  sitting  on  his  heels  near  the  hound,  but 
the  worn-eyed  hound  as  well  that  came  at  her  invita- 
tion to  stand  gravely  beside  her  and  devour  tid-bits. 
i  Her  spirits  were  infectious.  She  sampled  the  soup 
at  her  hostess'  invitation,  pronouncing  it  perfect. 
Her  jest  and  laughter  hypnotized  apparently  the 
melancholy  hound  to  the  forgetting  of  her  tiny 
puppies  that  were  nosing  the  straw  blindly  and  in 
vain.  The  pony  whickered.  The  youth  laughed 
aloud.  The  young  daughter  of  the  house  broke  into 
unintelligible  but  evidently  impassioned  speech  which 
her  mother  cut  short  by  a  cuff  on  the  ear. 

Antoine's  face  wreathed  itself  in  smiles  at  the  sight 
of  his  city-man's  condition  of  creature  comfort.  He 
began  to  figure  on  a  possible  increase  in  his  com- 
mission. 

After  the  meal  was  over  he  and  the  Indian  made 
ready  the  blankets  for  the  night.  The  women  cleaned 
the  bowls  by  dipping  them  in  the  kettle  of  boiling 
water,  rinsing  them,  and  emptying  the  contents  out- 
side the  door.  Afterwards  they  brought  out  their 
lace  pillows,  bobbins,  and  coarse  linen,  and  by  the 
light  of  a  pine  knot  set  to  work  industriously.  The 
pony  stood  with  drooping  head,  sleeping  with  one 
eye  asquint  for  unseen  happenings.  Then,  at  last, 
Antoine  passed  round  some  good  tobacco  from  his 
city-man's  ample  store,  and  the  girl,  dropping  down 
beside  her  father,  where  he  sat  on  a  comfortable 


114  Out  of  the  Silences 

improvised  couch  of  blankets,  burlap,  and  straw, 
leaned  against  him,  speaking  earnestly  : 

"Daddy,  I've  been  just  yearning  for  a  real  adven- 
ture all  my  life,  and  this  is  a  truly  one,  isn't  it?" 

To  which  her  father,  smiling  indulgently  at  her 
enthusiasm,  made  answer :  "It  looks  as  if  it  had  been 
made  to  order  for  you,  little  girl.  We're  mighty 
lucky  to  strike  just  this  place.  Antoine  says  it's 
the  beginning  of  a  loggers'  camp.  By  the  size  of  the 
stove  he  thinks  the  woman  is  going  to  do  the  cooking 
for  the  men;  but  he's  not  sure.  These  are  kindly 
enough  souls,  but  generally  they're  a  tough  lot." 

A  heavy  blast  roared  through  the  forest,  shaking 
the  stout  rafters.  She  raised  her  head  from  his 
shoulder. 

"  Goodness,  what  a  storm !  But  it  makes  it  all 
the  snugger  here,  doesn't  it?"  With  a  sigh  of  bliss 
she  hunched  up  against  his  shoulder  again. 

"Antoine  has  been  telling  me  that  it  won't  last 
long.  We're  in  luck  again,  for  this  wind  will  take  the 
snow  with  it  before  morning — •" 

"Oh,  dear!"  The  girl  interrupted  him  dolefully. 
"I  was  counting  on  the  glory  of  it  all,  Daddy  —  I 
mean  the  forest  with  its  branches  loaded  down  with 
snow,  and  perhaps  sunshine  on  it.  Antoine,"  she 
spoke  abruptly  as  if  challenging  him,  "do  you  mean 
to  say  we'll  have  no  snow  to-morrow  on  the  trail 
back  to  the  lake?" 

Antoine  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

"Yas;  de  nort'  win'  he  mak'  in  two,  t'ree  hour, 
wan  day  like  de  winter.  De  sout'  win',  he  come  an' 
mak'  de  nex'  day  like  de  sommer  wot  forgot  to  leaf : 
sonshine,  de  sky  bleu,  bleu  like  de  oiseau  bleu  —  yo 
know  heem  ?  De  lak'  bleu  like  de  sky.  An'  de  nort' 


A  Forest  Interlude  115 

win'  he  sleep  soun'  w'ile  hees  brodder,  de  sout'  win', 
make  much  veesite  on  de  nort'  Ian',  two-free  week, 
mebbe.  He  mak'  sommer  a  la  Saint  Martin,  sommer 
Indien,  hein?  An'  nikh-ka,  de  gray  goose,  she  tink 
she  mak,  for  sure,  wan  gran'  meestak'.  She  mos' 
turn  back  on  de  sky  trail  —  she." 

He  took  the  girl's  cap  from  a  peg  in  the  wall  and 
examined  the  feather  carefully. 

"Yas:  de  sout'  win'  he  mak'  dis  yhear  wan  gran' 
veesite." 

He  replaced  the  cap  and  began  to  puff  moderately 
with  great  contentment.  Things  were  working  out 
to  his  satisfaction,  especially  the  weather.  If  only 
he  could  contrive  to  hire  that  pony  over  in  the  corner 
for  the  return  trip  to  the  lake !  He  was  concerned 
about  his  city-man.  He  considered  him  too  soft, 
his  wind  too  short,  to  go  over  that  trail  again  in  the 
morning  with  the  prospect  of  three  hours  in  the 
canoes  followed  by  a  rough  portage  of  a  mile,  a  short 
canoe  trip  on  a  second  lake,  and  a  tramp  over  a  poor 
corduroy  logging  road  for  two  miles  to  a  hamlet 
where  he  knew  horse  and  wagon  were  obtainable  to 
take  them  to  the  end  of  their  trip  with  him :  a  rail- 
road station  nearest  to  Lake  Bemidji.  He  smokes  in 
silence,  busy  with  his  thought. 

His  city  man,  also,  is  thinking  thoughts,  varied 
and  distracting  to  his  peace  of  mind,  on  the  subject 
of  future  investments  in  this  northern  county.  He, 
too,  smokes  in  silence,  but  without  the  repose  of  his 
guide's  manner. 

The  Chippewa,  still  sitting  on  his  heels  near  the 
door,  is  smoking  stolidly,  steadily ;  he,  too,  is  think- 
ing —  what  ?  No  man  may  know  that  Indian  mind. 

The  other  three  men,  aliens  of  unknown  nationality, 


Ii6  Out  of  the  Silences 

sat  on  a  blanket  in  the  pony's  corner,  smoking  and 
whittling  axe  helves. 

3 

For  a  while  the  soft  irregular  click  of  the  bobbins, 
the  snapping  of  the  wood  in  the  stove,  the  faint 
crisp  sputter  of  the  pine  knot,  were  the  only  sounds 
within  the  room;  without,  the  obligate  accompani- 
ment of  the  south  wind,  which  since  the  last 
furious  onslaught  had  subsided  noticeably,  was 
droning  steadily  through  the  tree  tops  with  a 
deep  'cello  mellowness. 

After  a  time  the  girl  rose  quickly,  went  over  to  the 
hound's  corner,  rubbed  her  head  and  pulled  her  ears. 
The  dog  slavered.  She  took  up  one  by  one  the  three 
sleeping  puppies  and  cuddled  each  between  her  hands. 
She  laid  them  back  beside  their  mother;  crossed  to 
the  pony's  corner  and  patted  him  a  bit,  whereupon  he 
roused  himself  sufficiently  to  nose  her  arm ;  then  his 
head  drooped  again. 

The  girl  was  restless.  The  new  wine  of  life  was 
working  within  her.  The  call  of  the  wind  stirred  her 
young  blood  to  something  more  exciting  than  the 
somnolent  smokiness.  She  went  to  the  door  and 
looked  out,  exclaiming  at  the  sight: 

"Oh,  Daddy,  if  you'll  believe  it  the  sky  is  clearing : 
there  are  clouds  everywhere  and  the  moon  is  fairly 
wading  through  them." 

She  closed  the  door  and  sat  down  beside  the  girl 
who  was  minding  the  movements  of  the  stranger 
better  than  her  work.  She  watched  the  dexterous 
fingers  manipulate  the  clicking  bobbins. 

"They're  singing  a  little  tune,  Daddy;  if  only  we 
could  understand  the  words!  We  must  find  out 
who  these  people  are."  She  spoke  impatiently.  The 


A  Forest  Interlude  117 

girl  beside  her  looked  at  her,  smiling ;  she  would  so 
gladly  have  chatted  with  this  stranger. 

"  Antoine,"  the  girl  turned  to  him  suddenly, 
"  play  for  us.  Give  us  the  chansons  of  the  forest 
and  the  voyageurs'  old  songs.  You  know  how  I  love 
them  —  do  play." 

And  Antoine,  nothing  loath  to  please  the  girl  in 
this  manner  as  he  had  pleased  her  several  times 
before  of  an  evening  in  camp,  laid  aside  his  pipe,  pro- 
duced various  parts  of  his  beloved  clarionet,  fitted 
the  mouthpiece,  and  gave  them  of  his  best. 

At  the  first  soft  clear  notes,  the  youth  threw  aside 
his  knife  and  leaned  forward,  listening,  intent.  The 
others  folded  their  arms  and  fixing  their  gleaming  eyes 
on  the  player  swayed  gently  back  and  forth,  their 
movements  rhythmic  with  the  music. 

As  the  last  note  of  "The  Adventurous  Crow"  died 
away  like  a  faint  caw  in  forest  depths,  the  girl  spoke : 

"Give  us  the  Scotch  ones,  now,  Tony;  first,  'The 
Bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dundee.'  " 

Willingly  the  half-breed  gave  them  the  melodies 
he  had  learned  from  the  Scotch  wives  of  the  traders 
on  the  Canada  border ;  gave  them  the  rousing 
"Bonnets",  the  merry  lilt  of  "The  Bluebells  of  Scot- 
land", and  last  "Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie 
Boon." 

It  was  then  the  girl  sang  in  a  sweet,  clear,  but  not 
over  strong  voice  the  words  of  that  melody.  The 
youth's  eyes  filled.  The  alien  girl's  face  flushed  a 
deep  red.  If  only  they  could  have  spoken  their 
appreciation ! 

When  she  finished  the  mother  rose,  beckoning  to 
the  two  girls.  They  followed  her  in  behind  the  cur- 
tains whence  came  in  a  moment  small  cries  of  delight, 


Ii8  Out  of  the  Silences 

soft  purrs  of  satisfaction  from  the  stranger  girl,  and 
merry  laughter  from  all  three.  The  quilt  and 
blanket-valences  disappeared  with  a  jerk  from  the 
rope.  Antoine  spoke  to  his  city-man : 

"De  modder,  she  mak'  nest  for  de  birds.  I  tink 
leettle  Mees  fin'  now  wot  she  seek  all  de  time,  two 
week,  on  de  trail,  her  aventure,  an'  she  — " 

The  girl  rushed  out  from  behind  the  curtains,  a 
violin  in  her  hand. 

"Look,  Daddy,  look!  A  violin,  of  all  things.  It 
was  in  a  huge  chest  that's  full  of  the  most  fascinating 
embroidered  clothes.  I'm  sure  this  is  the  boy's. 
Now  we'll  have  some  music  that  will  tell  us  their 
nationality,  or  I  miss  my  guess."  ^  . 

She  handed  the  instrument  to  the  youth  who 
took  it  tenderly,  caressingly.  There  was  no  need  for 
speech ;  they  knew  by  his  manner  that  it  was  his. 

"Play,  play,"  she  urged,  accompanying  her  request 
with  gestures  appropriate  for  violin  playing. 

He  rose ;  felt  the  bow  with  his  thumb ;  drew  it 
across  the  strings ;  then,  throwing  back  his  head,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  rafters,  he  played  with  heart  and 
soul,  as  well  as  fingers,  the  Czardas. 

"Oh,  Daddy,"  she  breathed  rather  than  spoke, 
"Hungarians  —  the  Czardas."  She  listened  en- 
raptured to  the  wild  enticing  dance  music  of  the  alien 
fatherland. 

"Hongrois  —  mgh,"  muttered  Antoine;  "I  know 
w'y  dey  no  speak  not'ing." 

Once  the  youth  glanced  towards  the  curtains  and 
smiled,  but  the  girl  was  too  absorbed  to  follow  his  look. 

Suddenly  the  music  changed  from  adagio  —  another 
rhythm,  another  dance.  At  the  first  note,  that  was 
both  a  call  and  a  challenge,  the  curtains  were  pushed 


A  Forest  Interlude  119 

aside  and  the  Hungarian  girl  sprang  with  impetuous 
bound  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  poised  for  a 
moment  on  the  tips  of  her  toes  as  if  ready  for  flight, 
then  threw  herself  with  fiery  but  graceful  abandon 
into  the  dance. 

She  was  beautiful.  Dressed  in  Hungarian  peas- 
ant's fdte-day  costume :  full  frieze  skirt  of  dark 
blue,  full  white  linen  blouse  embroidered  richly  in 
colors,  heavily  embroidered  bodice,  silver  chains, 
silver  earrings,  she  seemed  another  personality. 

The  girl  sat  beside  her  father,  her  hand  resting  on 
his  knee.  The  wild  passion  of  the  music  enraptured 
her  senses ;  the  rhythmic  grace  of  the  Hungarian  en- 
tranced her  spirit.  Absorbed,  her  breathing  short, 
the  pupils  of  her  eyes  dilated,  she  watched  every 
movement  of  the  little  dancer.  At  last,  as  if  spent 
with  the  ecstasy  of  motion,  the  girl  sank  slowly,  in 
rhythm  with  a  long-drawn  diminuendo  minor  cadence, 
upon  one  knee  on  the  hard  beaten  earth,  only  to 
leap  to  her  feet  at  the  sudden  staccato  crash  of  the 
last  chord  drawn  across  the  strings,  whirl  once,  both 
feet  off  the  ground,  and  drop  breathless  and  smiling 
on  the  box  beside  her  mother. 

In  the  momentary  silence  that  followed  the  hound 
began  to  whimper.  The  Chippewa  rose  and,  opening 
the  door  softly,  went  out,  closing  it  behind  him. 

"Bravo,  bravo,"  Antoine  murmured  admiringly. 
This  was  something  unexpectedly  new  even  for  him. 

His  city-man  rose  and  with  old  school  courtesy 
bowed  low,  first  to  the  Hungarian  girl  then  to  her 
mother.  But  his  daughter,  springing  to  her  feet, 
went  straight  to  the  young  girl,  took  both  her  hands 
in  hers,  and  spoke  from  her  heart,  impulsively,  and 
so  earnestly : 


I2O  Out  of  the  Silences 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  could  understand  me!  I  wish 
you  could  know  how  beautiful  I  think  you  and  your 
dancing  are.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  understand 
what  a  treat  you  have  given  me  —  just  to  see  you 
dance  like  that,  and  to^hear  you  play,"  she  added 
turning  to  the  youth.  "Can't  you  understand  how 
I  feel  about  it?"  She  made  her  appeal  to  both. 

For  answer,  the  young  Hungarian,  still  holding  the 
stranger's  hands,  rose  and,  first  looking  up  into  her 
face,  bent  over  and  kissed  them  both.  The  youth 
stepped  quickly  forward  and  repeated  the  process. 

The  stranger  girl,  embarrassed  by  such  unexpected 
demonstration  drew  away  suddenly,  withdrawing  her 
hands.  Smiling,  and  reddening  to  her  temples,  she 
turned  to  her  father,  protesting  in  one  word : 

"Father!" 

"They  have  a  way,  these  foreigners,"  he  replied, 
amused  at  her  manner  of  accepting  their  adoration; 
"we  can  learn  many  graces  from  the  old  world. 
The  girl  is  trying  to  get  something  over  to  you  by  the 
looks." 

The  Hungarian  was  gesticulating  with  all  her  might. 
The  youth  was  evidently  exhorting  Antoine  in,  the 
same  dumb  show.  Finally  he  touched  the  clarionet. 

"Ah-r-r-r!"  Antoine  responded  with  enthusiastic 
satisfaction.  "Yo  wan'  that  leettle  Mees  dance, 
hein?" 

Finding  themselves  understood  the  girl's  tongue 
broke  loose,  and  the  youth's  followed  suit.  A  rush 
of  consonants  filled  the  room ;  they  sputtered,  hissed, 
fizzed,  zigzagged,  chassed,  changed  partners,  combin- 
ing in  a  most  bewildering  fashion.  In  the  end  their 
guest  understood  that  she  was  expected  to  dance  for 
them  and  Antoine  to  play  the  accompaniment. 


A  Forest  Interlude  121 

"But,  Daddy,  after  that  dancing  —  how  can  I?" 

"Do  your  best,  daughter;  you've  had  lessons 
enough." 

"  Then  I'll  give  them  the  Highland  Fling.  I'll  show 
them  we  Americans  are  not  such  slow  coaches  after 
all." 

She  entered  at  once  into  the  spirit  of  her  entertain- 
ment. She  seized  Antoine's  woolen  scarf,  woven  in 
many  colors,  fringed  at  the  ends,  and  setting  her 
cap  with  its  gray  goose  feather  firmly  on  her  head, 
she  retired  to  the  curtain  end  of  the  room  for  her  first 
charge. 

"Ready,  Tony." 

The  "Fling"  was  on.  She  spread  her  box-plaited 
skirt  of  tweed  to  its  fullest  extent,  and  if  her  red  and 
black  striped  petticoat  showed  to  advantage  she  did 
not  mind  in  the  least ;  she  was  dancing  the  Highland 
Fling  for  them  with  all  the  charm  of  her  personality. 
Arms  akimbo,  she  charged  and  retreated ;  she  swung 
and  twirled,  the  scarf  whirling  with  her ;  in  and  out 
of  it  she  seemed  to  pass  as  it  turned  with  her, —  over 
her  head,  around  her  shoulders,  —  all  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  the  clarionet's  gay  notes. 
4 

Before  she  had  finished,  the  Chippewa  entered, 
silently  as  he  had  gone  out,  and  spoke  a  low  word  to 
Antoine  who  nodded  understandingly. 

The  half-breed  had  increased  the  already  rapid 
tempo,  and  the  girl  was  responding  still  more  gayly, 
yet  a  little  breathlessly,  when  suddenly  the  hound, 
every  hair  bristling,  rose  up  from  the  corner  and 
gave  forth  a  prolonged,  terrified  cry. 

It  was  answered  by  a  low  wail  just  outside  the  door. 
Before  Antoine  and  Long  John  could  open  it,  a  heavy 


122  Out  of  the  Silences 

body  fell  against  it.  Antoine  spoke  to  the  half 
awed,  half  terrified  faces  about  him : 

"She  no  wolf  —  she  dog  wot  lost  herself,  so  Long 
Jean  say,  two,  t'ree  week.  He  tink  she  die  soon.  She 
no  mak'  more  trobble.  She  can  no  more."  He 
stepped  to  the  door,  the  girl  with  him. 

"Bring  him  in,  Antoine,  bring  him  in,  the  poor 
thing.  Don't  let  him  die  out  there  in  the  snow ; 
we're  not  afraid  of  him.  Let  me  see."  She  pressed 
forward  close  behind  him  as  he  opened  the  door. 

Before  the  threshold  lay  a  dog,  not  so  unlike  a 
timber  wolf,  long,  gaunt  from  starvation,  exhausted 
by  the  loss  of  blood  from  a  wound  in  the  haunch 
evidently  given  her  by  some  wild  animal  stronger 
than  she.  The  Chippewa  stooped  to  examine  the  poor 
creature.  He  spoke  a  few  words  to  Antoine.  They 
were  about  to  remove  the  dog  from  the  threshold, 
but  both  father  and  daughter  protested. 

"Don't  do  that,  Antoine,"  said  his  city-man; 
"bring  her  in;  even  a  dog  has  feelings.  Perhaps 
we  can  do  something." 

"Bring  her  in  to  me,  Antoine."  The  girl  spoke 
sharply  in  a  tone  the  half-breed  had  not  heard  be- 
fore. 

Antoine  consulted  with  the  Chippewa.  The  .youth 
and  the  man  barricaded  the  terrified  hound  in  her 
corner;  the  mother  and  daughter  protected  the 
pony  in  his. 

"Hit  better  we  give  de  dog  de  —  wot  you  call  it? 
—  coup  de  grace:  shoot  her." 

"No,  no,  you  shall  not  shoot  her.  She  isn't  yours. 
Bring  her  in,  I  say." 

"You'd  better  bring  her  in,  Antoine,"  said  the  city- 
man. 


A  Forest  Interlude  123 

The  half-breed  and  the  Indian  spoke  together 
again.  Then  Antoine  translated : 

"Long  Jean,  he  say  Leettle  Owl  come  sure  for  fin' 
hees  dog,  an'  it  'bout  mak'  for  to  die  Leettle  Owl 
w'en  he  sees  hees  pauvre  chienne  so  seek." 

The  girl  did  not  heed  them,  perhaps  she  did  not 
even  hear  them.  She  was  gathering  up  an  armful  of 
straw  from  the  pony's  corner.  She  dropped  it  near 
the  stove;  took  her  rubber  coat  from  the  open  pack 
and  spread  it  on  the  ground  by  the  straw.  She  spoke 
to  the  men  bringing  in  the  dog. 

"Put  him  there." 

The  men  placed  the  animal  on  the  straw.  The  girl 
sat  down  on  the  coat,  drew  a  corner  across  her  lap 
and  laid  the  dog's  head  on  it.  She  appealed  to  her 
father  who  was  standing  over  her,  carefully  feeling 
the  dog. 

"Father,  put  a  little  spirits  into  some  of  that  hot 
water  —  quick,  there's  no  milk  here." 

He  took  out  his  flask  and  to  humor  her  did  as  he 
was  told. 

"Antoine,  give  me  one  of  those  chips,  a  large  one," 
—  she  pointed  to  a  pile  the  men  had  left  from  their 
whittling,  —  "and  get  me  a  wooden  spoon  from 
that  closet. " 

Antoine  obeyed  promptly.  She  beckoned  to  the 
Chippewa. 

"  Antcine,  tell  him  to  wedge  her  mouth." 

Her  bidding  was  done  with  alacrity.  The  aliens 
in  the  corners  were  an  interested  audience,  but  at 
this  moment  the  girl  was  all  unaware  of  them. 

"Poor  thing,"  she  said  pityingly,  lifting  the  dog's 
head  on  her  hand.  She  dipped  a  spoonful  of  the 
warm  liquid  from  the  tin  cup  her  father  held  for  her 


124       •          Out  of  the  Silences 

and  poured  it  into  the  dog's  throat.  The  creature 
seemed  past  swallowing.  Gently  but  firmly  she 
manipulated  the  muscles;  the  liquid  went  down. 
She  gave  another  dose  in  the  same  fashion.  She 
handed  her  handkerchief  to  Antoine  to  wet  with  the 
hot  water.  She  waved  it  back  and  forth  to  cool  it  a 
little,  then  laid  it  on  the  blood-caked  wound. 

"Oh,  Daddy,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "just  see 
the  poor  mother."  She  pointed  to  the  dark,  hard, 
swollen  dugs. 

"Where  are  her  little  puppies?  Would  it  do  any 
good  if  we  put  the  hound's  babies  to  her?"  Her 
father  shook  his  head. 

The  girl's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  stroked  the 
large  fine  head.  A  quiver  ran  through  the  dog's 
body,  followed  by  a  quick  low  sigh.  Antoine  spoke : 

"She  mak'  her  feenish,  la  pauvre  bete." 

The  hound  was  whimpering  in  the  corner. 

The  Chippewa  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and 
stood  there  listening  intently.  He  whispered  to  the 
half-breed. 

"What  is  it  now,  Antoine?"  The  city-man  spoke 
abruptly.  The  dog's  death  had  gotten  on  his  nerves, 
for  at  home  he  had  three  fine  ones  of  his  own  and 
well  he  loved  them. 

"I  tol'  yo :  Long  Jean,  he  say  Leettle  Owl  bin  com- 
ing for  fin'  hees  dog.  Heem  come,"  he  said  grimly. 

The  next  moment  they  were  aware  of  the  fact,  for 
they  heard  the  rapid  snow-deadened  thud  of  hoofs  in 
the  clearing.  A  moment  more  and  a  pony  was 
brought  to  so  sudden  a  stop  at  the  threshold  that  he 
sat  squarely  on  his  haunches.  The  Chippewa  stepped 
out ;  spoke  a  word  or  two,  and  thereupon  a  boy  rushed 
into  the  room,  speaking  to  no  one,  noticing  no  one, 


A  Forest  Interlude  125 

seeing  nothing  but  his  dog  stretched  out  on  the  straw, 
her  head  still  on  the  girl's  lap.  "^i 

He  flung  himself  down  beside  her,  laying  his  ear 
over  the  sharp  ribs.  He  lifted  her  head  ;  looked  at 
her  eyes.  A  sudden  shivering  seized  him ;  his  teeth 
chattered.  He  rose  to  his  feet. 

The  girl  stroked  the  dog's  head. 

"Don't  you  touch  her!"  he  said  fiercely.  "She's 
mine." 

The  last  word  was  almost  a  suppressed  shriek. 
The  girl  removed  her  hand.  She  could  but  respect 
the  boyish  misery  that  showed,  oh,  so  plainly,  in  the 
thin,  white,  set  face,  the  chattering  teeth,  the  shiver- 
ing little  figure,  lithe,  straight  as  a  pine  sapling; 
strong  too,  for  without  another  word  he  lifted  the 
dog's  body,  laid  it  across  his  shoulders,  holding  it  by 
fore  and  hind  paws  as  a  shepherd  carries  a  lamb,  and 
started  for  the  door.  Antoine  confronted  him. 

"Where  bin  going,  Leettle  Owl?"  He  spoke  very 
kindly  to  the  lad. 

"Back."  The  boy  answered  in  no  uncertain  tone 
with  a  look  at  Antoine  that  convinced  the  half-breed 
that  here  there  could  be  no  interference;  but  his 
city-man  protested. 

"He  mustn't  go  back  till  we  have  dried  him  off, 
wanned  Him  up  well  —  such  a  little  chap,  and  alone 
too.  He  can't  be  more  than  eleven." 

"He  tough,  Leettle  Owl.  He  like  de  pine-tree  root 
wot  hoi'  on  for  sure  to  not'ing.  And  he  see  in  de 
dark  like  de  brown  owl  —  he."  He  let  the  boy  pass, 
opened  the  door  for  him,  and  followed  him  out. 

The  girl  rose  and  went  to  the  window ;  her  father 
joined  her.  Hollowing  her  hands  to  her  temples  to 
shut  off  the  light  from  the  room,  she  looked  out.  The 


126  Out  of  the  Silences 

moon  was  partly  obscured,  but  by  its  light  she  saw 
the  boy  with  Long  John's  help  lay  the  body  of  the 
dog  across  the  pony's  shoulders;  saw  him  fling  him- 
self on,  and  the  three  start  across  the  clearing,  the 
Ghippewa  following  closely. 

"Now  why  the  deuce  is  that  Indian  sneaking  off 
like  that  to-night  ?  "  said  her  father  irritably.  "  We're 
tired  and  need  to  turn  in  early  with  what's  before  us 
to-morrow." 

"Antoine  will  tell  us;  he's  coming  in." 

"What's  all  this  for?"  he  demanded  of  the  half- 
breed  as  he  entered. 

"Long  Jean,  he  go  wit'  Leettle  Owl  to  Chippewa 
village,  mebbe  eight  mile  sout'  from  hyear.  He  hire 
pony  for  de  matin — ^nex'  day;  I  hire  de  pony  in 
de  corner  —  me,  an'  yo  an'  leettle  Mees  mak'  de  bad 
wet  trail  to  de  lak'  so  —  pony-pack,  hein?" 

His  city-man  smiled.  His  irritation  vanished  like 
the  night's  snow  before  the  south  wind.  He  felt 
again  as  he  had  felt  already  many  times  during  the 
month's  trip  —  how  wise  he  had  been  to  have  engaged 
two  such  guides  even  at  ten  dollars  a  day.  It  was 
worth  something  to  have  one's  anticipated  discomfort 
on  the  morrow  discounted  in  this  pleasant  fashion. 

"And  I'm  glad  enough.  Now  let's  turn  in;  I'm 
dead  tired." 

"I  believe  I  am  too,"  said  the  girl ;  then,  with  a  sigh, 
"Do  you  know,  Daddy,  I'm  so  sorry  for  that  boy." 

"So  am  I.  It  was  tough  on  him,  no  mistake;  but 
don't  you  bother  about  it  any  more.  Good-night 
and  sleep  soundly."  He  kissed  her  twice. 

"Good-night,  Daddy  dear."  Taking  up  her  blanket 
absently,  she  followed  the  woman  and  girl  in  behind 
the  curtains. 


A  Forest  Interlude  127 

5 

All  night  the  south  wind  droned  softly  through  the 
forest  to  the  accompanying  drip,  drip,  drip  of  melting 
snow.  When  the  morning  broke  Antoine's  words 
were  fulfilled :  the  summer  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
to  leave.  There  were  soft  blue  skies  and  sunshine ; 
and  every  feathery  pine  branch,  every  brown  leaf, 
every  twig  among  the  underbrush,  every  cup  of  moss 
was  bejewelled  with  the  snow-water  dew  —  sparkle, 
glitter,  prismatic  colors  everywhere  as  the  strong,  level 
beams  of  the  rising  sun  shone  into  the  forest  athwart 
the  trail. 

The  occupants  of  the  camp  were  early  astir  and, 
coffee  and  bread  disposed  of,  busied  themselves  in 
various  ways  —  all  save  the  girl.  She  stood  just 
outside  the  door  using  her  eyes  to  good  advantage. 
She  was  taking  in  all  the  details  of  the  rude  camp,  bark 
covered,  that  looked  a  part  of  the  forest  behind  it. 
There  were  no  outbuilclings  to  offend  the  eye,  not 
yet.  No  trace  of  fire  was  to  be  seen,  no  blackened 
stumps,  no  dead  and  down  timber  except  the  huge 
pile  of  pine  logs  beside  the  camp. 

All  about  the  clearing  was  the  forest.  North, 
south,  east,  and  west  the  trees  reared  their  great 
crowns  against  the  skyline,  and  beneath  them  the 
green  glooms  were  shot  through  and  through  with  the 
fresh  glory  of  the  morning  light. 

The  girl's  face  kindled  with  some  strange  reflection 
of  the  light.  She  looked  to  the  south  where  the  trail 
from  that  direction  emerged,  and  there,  coming  out 
of  the  woods,  crossing  the  clearing,  came  the  Chip- 
pewa  on  a  pony.  Before  him  sat  a  wee  Indian  maiden, 
round-faced,  soft-eyed,  sweet-lipped,  two  dark  brown 
braids  showing  beneath  a  little  crimson  and  white 


128  Out  of  the  Silences 

blanket  shawl  which  enveloped  her  head  hoodwise  and 
fell  in  soft  folds  to  her  small  moccasinned  feet  that 
dangled  against  the  pony's  withers. 

"Oh,  Antoine,"  the  girl  called  to  the  half-breed, 
"come  out,  do,  and  tell  me  who  the  little  dear  is  that 
Long  John  is  bringing  back  with  him ! " 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  she  reached  up  both 
hands,  as  the  pony  drew  up  at  the  door,  to  lift  the 
child  down.  But  the  little  maid  drew  back  shyly 
against  the  Chippewa,  looking  up  inquiringly  into 
his  face.  The  Indian  spoke  a  few  words  to  her. 
Without  more  ado  than  a  squirrel  may  make  hi  running 
down  a  tree  trunk,  the  child  slid  down  the  Indian's 
leg  to  the  ground  and  stood  before  the  assembled 
camp :  aliens,  strangers,  Antoine,  hound,  and  pony 
—  a  little  red  bird  alight  in  the  clearing  among  the 
towering  pines. 

"Who  is  the  darling?  Antoine,  do  find  out."  The 
girl  spoke  almost  impatiently. 

"She  Kinni-kinnik  —  Long  Jean,  hees  gran'chile." 

"And  what  is  Long  John  going  to  do  with  her 
here?  Why  does  he  bring  her  so  far?" 

"Long  Jean,  he  ver'  proud  of  hees  Kinni-kinnik; 
he  like  for  mak'  show  wit  her.  He  say  Leettle  Owl 
bin  coming  on  his  pony,  an'  Kinni-kinnik  an 
Leettle  Owl  mak'  veesite  on  de  camp  till  dat  de  camp 
garqon  he  come  back  from  de  lak'  wit  de  ponies  — 
four  hour,  mebbe.  Den  Leettle  Owl  tak'  de  ponies 
and  Kinni-kinnik  back  to  Chippewa  village." 

"You've  planned  well,  Antoine,"  said  his  city- 
man;  "and  now  let's  be  off."  The  Indian  helped 
him  astride  the  pony.  The  girl  stooped  to  kiss  the 
grave  little  face  upturned  to  hers.  The  child  drew 
back. 


A  Forest  Interlude  129 

"Give  me  a  dollar  for  Kinni-kinnik  too,  Daddy," 
she  begged ;  "you  have  been  generous  enough  with 
the  others." 

Her  father  with  an  indulgent  word  handed  her  a 
silver  dollar.  She  pressed  it  into  the  child's  hand. 

"I've  crossed  your  palm  with  silver  for  luck,  dear 
little  Kinni-kinnik.  You  can't  forget  me  now,  even 
if  you  want  to." 

There  was  just  a  flicker  of  a  smile  on  the  demure 
little  face.  The  child's  fingers  closed  tightly  over 
the  silver. 

The  girl  took  her  seat  on  the  aliens'  pony.  She 
leaned  to  grasp  the  toil-hardened  hands  held  up  to 
her. 

"Good-by,  good-by  till  we  meet  again."  She 
spoke  joyously,  waving  her  hand  to  them  as  the  little 
procession  crossed  the  clearing  and  entered  upon  the 
sunbarred  floor  of  the  forest  trail.  Once  again  the 
girl  turned  to  wave  her  hand  to  the  group  about  the 
door,  and  looking  behind  her  saw  the  boy  on  his 
pony  coming  from  the  woods  to  the  south.  She  waved 
her  hand  to  him  too. 

"Good-by,  Little  Owl,  good-by,"  she  called  back 
in  her  gay  young  voice. 

There  was  no  answering  salute,  no  recognition  that 
he  had  seen  or  heard  her. 

"He's  a  queer  chap."  She  spoke  to  her  father 
just  ahead.  "I  believe  he  has  been  watching  us  all 
the  time  from  the  trail  across  the  clearing.  Why 
didn't  he  come  and  say  good-by  to  us,  I  wonder?" 

"Mgh."  It  was  Antoine  who  replied.  "He  bin 
dere  de  'hole  time,  scouting.  I  see  heem ;  he  tink 
I  no  see  not'ing.  He  wot  yo  call  shy,  like  de  red 
deer,  is  Leettle  Owl." 


130  Out  of  the  Silences 

"I  don't  see  anything  for  him  to  be  shy  about," 
said  the  girl,  indifferently.  In  another  moment  she 
was  oh'ing  and  ah'ing  at  the  radiant  beauty  of  the 
forest  in  the  freshness  of  the  Indian  summer  morning. 
She  let  the  others  go  on  ahead  of  her.  She  told  her 
father  she  could  be  trusted  to  ride  a  bit  alone  without 
a  cavalcade  in  close  attendance.  He  let  her  have 
her  way. 

6 

She  rode  on  drawing  deep  breaths  of  the  tonic  air. 
She  threw  back  her  head  to  look  up  through  the  trees 
at  the  irregular  patches  of  deepening  blue  showing 
through  their  interstices.  Somewhere,  afar  in  the 
forest,  she  heard  a  low  bird-note ;  then  a  crow  cawed 
loudly  above  her ;  his  call  was  answered  by  another 
and  still  a  third.  A  rabbit  leaped  across  the  trail 
and  vanished  in  the  undergrowth. 

After  a  time  she  was  aware  of  soft  almost  noiseless 
steps  close  behind  her.  She  turned  quickly  and  saw 
Little  Owl  trotting  silently  by  the  pony's  haunches. 
She  drew  rein  at  once.  The  boy  reached  up  and 
thrust  into  her  bridle  hand  a  shell,  or  what  she  took 
to  be  one  at  that  moment. 

"It's  for  you,"  he  said  in  a  low  tense  voice. 

Before  she  could  speak  a  word  of  thanks,  her 
surprise  being  genuine,  he  was  gone.  She  looked 
back  — •  he  was  running  swiftly,  silently.  Even  as 
she  looked  he  was  out  of  sight;  the  forest  closed 
about  him. 

She  started  on  the  pony  again,  looking  at  the  shell  or 
what  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  one ;  she  did  not  stop  to 
examine.  She  smiled  at  her  thought :  this  was  such 
a  pretty  ending  to  her  adventure !  She  would  keep 
this  gift  to  herself.  It  was  for  no  other.  She  was 


A  Forest  Interlude  131 

sure  the  boy  had  given  it  to  her  for  the  unavailing 
pity  she  had  felt  for  his  dog.  It  was  clear  that  he 
had  chosen  this  time  for  his  gift  when  both  she  and 
he  were  unobserved. 

"  Poor  laddie,"  she  murmured. 

She  unbuttoned  her  jacket,  thrust  the  shell  into 
her  blouse,  and  rode  on  into  the  forest  depths. 


IV 
THE  PATH  OF  LIFE 


IV 
THE   PATH   OF  LIFE 

THE  MAN-BOY 
i 

AFTER  his  return  to  the  Mountain,  the  saddle- 
maker  was  aware  of  an  indefinable  change  in  the  boy. 
Had  he  been  learned  he  might  have  called  the  change 
psychological,  and  accounted  for  it  by  Bob's  recent 
experience  of  another  environment;  but  not  being 
versed  in  book-science  of  any  kind,  he  accepted  the 
simple  fact  that  Bob  wasn't  quite  like  himself  and 
that  growing  boys,  much  like  the  animals,  are  subject 
to  such  change.  Moreover,  he  knew  the  boy  still 
sorrowed  for  his  dog  to  whose  puppies  he  was  devoting 
himself,  his  time,  and  a  nursing  bottle,  with  good 
results ;  for  the  rest  he  was  little  in  the  hut  during  the 
day,  and  during  the  nights  of  that  wonderful  autumn 
aftermath  of  summer  slept,  rolled  in  his  blanket,  in 
the  woods  over  by  the  south  trail. 

The  fact  was  Bob  wanted  to  live  on  his  own  basis ; 
that  is  to  say  he  wanted  to  free  himself  from  the 
hut  and  Jane.  The  saddle-maker  soon  saw  into  his 
manoeuvring. 

"That  life  in  the  Minnesota  big  woods  kind  o' 

spoiled  ye  for  my  housekeeping  didn't  it,  Son?"     He 

asked  rather  suddenly  one  day  when  the  lad  —  he  was 

growing  tall  since  his  return  —  had  dropped  some 

135 


136  Out  of  the  Silences 

broad  hints  as  to  how  he  would  like  to  provide  for 
himself  like  a  man. 

Bob  looked  up  quickly,  a  little  surprised  that  his 
thought  should  be  so  easily  read;  then  looked  as 
quickly  away,  fearful  lest  Plunket  read  all  his 
thoughts. 

"Well,  you  see  it's  this  way,  Plunket:  that  tepee 
just  suited  me  clear  down  to  the  ground,  as  you  say 
when  you  like  something  awfully  well.  It  was  mine, 
you  know ;  an'  when  I  dropped  that  tent-flap  at 
night  it  was  just  like  a  little  house  of  my  own  — 
cozy,  you  know." 

"I  don't  blame  ye."  The  saddle-maker  spoke 
thoughtfully.  He  knew  that  Jane  did  not  regard 
the  boy  with  any  particular  favor ;  he  doubted 
whether,  being  an  Indian,  she  would  ever  lose  her 
special  grudge  against  him.  He  knew  that,  so  far 
as  possible,  Bob  had  nothing  to  do  with  Jane.  He 
saw  that  he  liked  Tom  and  Jerry  well  enough  al- 
though their  very  evident  worship  of  him,  which 
showed  itself  in  following  him  about  and  discovering 
his  whereabouts  if  within  the  radius  of  a  mile,  both 
bored  and  irritated  him. 

"I'll  set  up  a  tepee  for  myself,  if  you'll  say  the  word, 
Plunket.  The  hut  is  gettin'  too  full  of  us." 

"I'll  say  the  word  all  right,  but  it  won't  be  'bout 
lettin'  ye  winter  in  a  tepee,  Son,  not  yet."  He  spoke 
emphatically. 

Bob  kicked  an  old  bucket-yoke,  that  happened  to 
lie  conveniently  near  his  foot,  and  sent  it  spinning 
across  a  yard  or  two  of  grass.  It  helped  him  to  hold 
his  tongue.  At  no  time  did  the  boy  relish  the  least 
restraint  or  bear  it  without  irritation ;  and  least  of 
all  was  he  willing  to  suffer  bit  or  bridle  when  his 


The  Path  of  Life  137 

desires  seemed  to  him  wholly  legitimate.  His  inner 
comment  on  the  saddle-maker's  statement,  that 
sounded  a  note  of  finality,  dooming  all  his  hopes  of  a 
life  away  from  the  squaw,  was  forcible ;  but  the 
bucket-yoke  proved  a  good  scapegoat  and  he  did  not 
want  to  hurt  his  friend.  Bill  Plunket  read  rebellion 
in  the  boy's;* act;  but  he  was  wise,  wise  in  dealing 
with  this  specimen  of  the  younger  generation.  Bob 
remaining  silent  and  glum,  he  spoke  again : 

"It's  'bout  as  ye  say,  I  ain't  denyin'  it  —  the  hut's 
gettin'  too  full  for  us-all,  an'  I  don't  blame  ye  for 
wantin'  a  little  place  to  hole  up  in.  Ye  can't  use 
the  shed,  for  that's  full,  too,  now  we've  got  Hannah 
an'  my  horse  back,  an'  your  pony,  an'  the  cavalry 
plug,  an'  the  Minnesota  heifer,  an'  the  dogs,  an'  a 
hen  or  two  —  Jane  is  set  on  winterin'  a  few.  An' 
it's  like  to  be  fuller  —  that  heifer  is  right  on  her  job. 
So  the  shed  won't  work."  For  a  few  minutes  he 
was  silent,  lost,  to  all  appearance,  in  deep  thought. 
Bob  felt  it  unwise  to  interrupt  him. 

"I'll  tell  ye  what,  Son,  we'll  knock  together  a 
little  lean-to  on  the  south  end  of  the  shed.  Hannah 
can  do  the  haulin'  with  the  stone-boat,  an'  I  can 
manage  a  good  chimney  for  ye,  —  plenty  of  stone  an' 
clay  'round  in  the  mountains, — an'  we'll  fix  up  a  place 
for  ye  where  ye'll  enjoy  yerself,  an'  I  can't  say  that 
for  any  tepee  in  a  hard  winter.  Ye  can  look  out 
for  the  stock,  an'  be  handy  if  a  horse  gets  stalled  or 
the  heifer  gives  us  a  surprise  party,  —  a  heifer'll  do 
that  most  any  time,  —  an'  kind  o'  take  the  care  off  o' 
me.  The  old  man's  got  plenty  to  see  to  in  the  hut." 

Bob  looked  at  his  friend  admiringly  and  gratefully. 
The  lean-to  was  a  fine  way  out  of  his  difficulty,  and 
no  feelings  hurt. 


138  Out  of  the  Silences 

"I  say,  Plunket,  that's  rippin'-bully.  I  never 
thought  o'  that.  When  can  we  begin?" 

He  was  all  eagerness  to  escape  from  the  thraldom 
of  Jane  and  the  hut.  He  realized  that  the  lean-to 
would  give  him  only  partial  freedom,  but  when  he 
was  older  —  well,  he  knew  what  he  would  do  when  he 
was  McGillie's  age. 

"Right  now,  Son.  We  can't  afford  to  lose  one 
hour  o'  this  weather.  We've  got  to  think  o'  the 
clay  an'  its  good  dryin'.  I'll  get  the  spade,  an'  hitch 
up  Hannah." 

During  the  next  ten  days  the  man  and  boy  enjoyed 
themselves  to  the  top  of  their  bent.  The  two  were 
always  most  companionable,  but  in  the  intimacy  of 
their  work  in  the  woods,  felling  small  trees  and 
getting  out  the  logs,  their  appreciation  of  each  other 
deepened,  their  friendship  ripened  in  the  mellowing 
atmosphere  of  those  November  days.  .  . 

2 

Just  as  winter  set  in,  bringing  almost  at  once  the 
bitter  weather  of  those  weeks  in  the  dugout  on  the 
far  away  Missouri,  the  log  lean-to  was  finished ;  its 
chinks  were  filled,  its  floor  laid  with  clay,  its  chimney 
built  on  good  principles  —  it  was  tall  enough  to 
assure  a  fine  draught,  and  shallow  enough  to  throw 
all  the  heat  into  the  small  eight  by  ten  interior.  When 
the  clay  floor  was  smoothed,  a  bunk  knocked  up  across 
the  warm  shed  end,  filled  with  sweet-smelling  hay 
gathered  around  the  sloughs,  and  the  buffalo  robe 
laid  over  it;  when  the  kettle  and  a  few  pans,  that 
Plunket  had  provided  out  of  his  own  store,  having 
purchased  them  long  ago  in  Boissevain  to  replenish 
those  with  which  Jane  had  departed,  hung  on  nails 
driven  into  the  logs ;  when  his  gun  rack  was  on  the 


The  Path  of  Life  139 

wall,  a  fire  bright  on  the  clay  hearth,  and  the  puppies 
were  asleep  on  the  gayly  colored  blanket,  that  was 
the  fruit  of  his  first  pony  trade  —  then  it  was  that 
Bob  Collamore,  now  just  turned  fourteen,  slipped 
the  long  wooden  bolt  on  the  inside  of  his  door; 
made  his  own  tea  in  his  own  black  tin  teapot ;  fried 
his  bacon  in  his  own  frying  pan ;  stewed  some  dried 
raspberries  in  a  very  sweet  syrup  of  his  own  concoc- 
tion; and,  after  feasting  like  a  young  god,  lighted 
his  pipe. 

There  is  no  man  on  earth  who  might  not  have  envied 
him.  His  joy  in  his  freedom  was  great ;  his  enjoyment 
of  his  little  home  entire ;  his  satisfaction  with  all  his 
circumstances  supreme ;  his  appetite  —  that  kept 
him  busy  supplying  himself.  He  was  so  happy  in  his 
special  housekeeping,  apart  from  Jane  and  her 
"jawin"'  as  McGillie  put  it!  He  didn't  blame 
McGillie  for  clearing  out ;  he  would  when  he  was  older. 

This  conviction  that  to  "clear  out"  was  the  only 
thing  remaining  for  him  when  he  should  have  attained 
McGillie's  age  —  sixteen  when  he  went  north  —  grew 
stronger  as  winter  wore  to  spring,  for  he  knew  that 
further  complications  in  the  hut  were  in  order.  He 
knew,  because  of  his  intimate  knowledge  of  animal 
life,  that  this  complicating  event  would  fill  the  hut 
to  overflowing  in  the  not  distant  future.  .  . 

3 

"Plunket—  " 

The  saddle-maker  had  come  to  know  that  something 
was  weighing  on  Bob's  mind  when  he  spoke  abruptly 
out  of  a  silence  of  more  than  ten  minutes.  He  waited 
for  further  developments. 

The  boy  was  hammering  away  industriously  at  a 
piece  of  brass  —  a  bit  of  an  old-tune  kettle  which 


140  Out  of  the  Silences 

the  saddle-maker  obtained  from  an  Indian  for  almost 
its  weight  in  tobacco.  Bob  liked  this  part  of  the 
work ;  it  gave  his  fancy  free  rein.  He  made  orna- 
ments for  the  saddle,  crude  in  their  execution  but 
artistic  in  conception.  The  boy  was  hammering 
something  of  bird  life  into  the  special  bit  on  which  he 
was  at  work  —  a  loon  on  its  heavy  wing.  The  draw- 
ing was  his ;  the  hammered  design  showed  creative 
power  all  of  which  was  lost  on  the  saddle-maker, 
but  proved  enticing  to  the  whites  and  Indians.  The 
saddle-maker  knew  only  that  the  "  high-f alutin " 
brass,  as  he  called  it,  increased  the  value  of  his  good 
saddles.  The  difference  in  price  obtained  for  the 
brass  ornamented  saddles  and  the  unornamented  went 
to  Bob  for  wages. 

As  usual  when  working,  they  were  seated  in  the  wide 
shed  door  that  opened  on  the  woods  to  the  west.  It 
was  cool  there  of  a  morning.  After  another  five 
minutes  of  silence  and  busy  work  Bob  spoke  again 
in  the  same  tone. 

"Plunket—  " 

"Wot's  up,  Son?"  The  saddle-maker  resumed 
the  stitching  of  a  leather  strap. 

"Chum  said  he  wouldn't  be  round  for  the  next 
four  or  five  days." 

"Why  not?" 

"Says  he's  going  on  a  fast  —  on  purpose,  four  or 
five  days." 

"Wot's  he  goin'  hungry  for?  Never  knew  an 
Indian  to  go  hungry  for  the  love  of  an  empty 
stomach." 

"He  says  he's  got  to  ;  it's  the  custom  of  his  people." 
Bob  easily  fell  into  Indian  ways  of  speech  when 
speaking  of  them. 


The  Path  of  Life  141 

"He's  right;  they  have  an  awful  sight  o'  what  he 
calls  'customs.'" 

"What  makes  his  people  want  to  fast  five  days  for  ?  " 

"You've  got  me  there.  I've  lived  with  'em  half 
my  life  an'  I  can't  keep  run  o'  their  customs  —  they're 
too  much  for  me.  Mebbe  it's  somp'in'  to  do  with  the 
Sun  Ceremony  they're  goin'  to  hold  here;  one  is 
'bout  due." 

"What's  that?" 

"I  can't  give  ye  no  right  idea  'bout  it  —  I  ain't 
never  been  near  it ;  but  as  near  as  I  can  make  out  it's 
somp'in'  like  one  of  the  old-fashioned  Methody  camp- 
meetin's  my  mother  used  to  go  to  when  I  was  a  kid." 

"What's  a  camp-meetin' ? " 

The  saddle-maker  chuckled.  "Ye're  more  like  a 
woodchuck  being  smoked  out  o'  his  hole  than  any- 
thing else  livin.' " 

"Why?" 

Bill  Plunket  laughed  out  loud.  "Ye  was  sure 
born  'whyin',  Son.  Ye  know  when  a  woodchuck 
gets  into  his  hole  an'  ye  try  to  smoke  him  out,  ye 
always  have  to  stop  up  t'other  entrance  or  't  ain't  no 
good.  An'  if  ye  pour  a  pail  or  two  o'  water  down  one 
end,  he's  out  at 't  other  if  ye  don't  watch  out.  Don't 
ask  me  no  more  'bout  camp-meetin'.  I  was  only  a 
little  chap,  an'  I  was  left  to  home." 

"But,  Plunket,  I  think  he's  got  to  do  it  all  alone. 
He  says  that  fourteen  summers  and  winters  have 
passed  over  his  head  and  it's  time  for  him  to  follow 
the  trail  of  his  fathers  —  fathers,  mind  you,  not 
father.  He  said  his  grandfather  made  his  fast 
when  he  was  twelve,  and  after  that  he  killed  a  white 
man  because  some  other  white  men  had  killed  his 
sister.  An'  he  said  Carmastic  got  his  'medicine'  — 


142  Out  of  the  Silences 

so  he  could  kill  that  man  —  in  a  dream.  Now  what 
d'you  make  o'  that?  It  sounds  rotten." 

"I  dunno,  Son,  I  dunno.  An  Injun  can  see  signs, 
an'  dream  dreams,  an'  follow  dead  trails,  an'  swim 
bad  coulees,  an'  see  spirits  walkin',  an'  have  all  the 
animiles  talkin'  to  him  like  friends,  an'  —  well,  I 
can't  just  exactly  say  it  as  I  want  to,  to  make  ye 
understand,  but  the  whole  o'  'em  live  two  lives 
where  we  live  one.  I  don't  understand  it,  an'  I 
ain't  never  tried  to.  All  I  know  is  they  do  see  things 
we  don't ;  ye  can  tell  it  by  their  goings-on.  An' 
let  me  tell  ye  right  now  an'  here :  —  keep  away  from 
their  ceremonies,  an'  their  dances,  an'  all  their 
private  gewgaws  in  the  way  of  what  ye  might  call 
religion ;  for  I  can  tell  ye  it  ain't  healthy  for  a  boy  of 
white  blood  to  mix  much  with  'em  at  such  times. 
Stick  to  yer  Bible." 

"But  the  tribes  in  the  Book  did  just  the  same 
things,  Plunket !"  Bob  protested  vigorously.  "They 
did  lots  of  things  just  like  the  Injuns,  with  their 
fasts,  an'  feasts,  an'  sacrifices,  an'  —  an'  —  " 

"An'  wot?"  The  saddle-maker  was  curious  to 
see  how  deeply  the  Indians'  ways  and  traditions  had 
been  dyed  into  the  white  man's  skin,  at  least. 

" — 'An'  their  temple  in  the  wilderness — "  He 
hesitated,  wondering  if  he  should  tell  even  Bill 
Plunket.  "I've  seen  their  old  altars  all  'round  in  the 
mountains." 

"Ye  have,  have  ye?  Well,  keep  what  ye've  seen 
to  yerself  —  an'  me." 

Bob,  considering  this  caution,  made  up  his  mind 
to  heed  the  first  part  of  the  advice  and  reject  the 
second.  There  were  some  things  even  the  saddle- 
maker  did  not  understand. 


The  Path  of  Life  143 

"Anyway,  Chum  said  he  was  goin'  to-night  —  and 
into  the  mountain,  too." 

"Mgh." 

"An'  he  said:  'To-night  I  leave  my  grandfather's 
tepee,  and  when  I  return  I  shall  be  a  man.'  Now 
how  can  he  be  a  man  over  night?  That's  what  I 
want  to  know.  He  looks  just  like  a  funny  pap- 
poose,  an'  he's  only  up  to  my  shoulder."  His  tone 
was  resentful.  Chum  the  round-faced,  who  had  not 
quite  four  feet  six  to  his  height-credit,  Chum  with 
his  shock  of  hair  falling  over  his  eyes ;  Chum 
whom  he  had  led  into  all  sorts  of  boyish  mischief  — 
Chum  asserting  that  he  would  be  a  man  when  he 
should  have  returned  from  a  five  days'  fast  and  a 
dream  with  medicine ! 

Bob  sneered.  "He's  crazy;  clean  plumb  loco.  I 
don't  hold  with  such  stuff." 

Bill  Plunket  was  a  man  of  wisdom  although  not  of 
learning.  He  knew  that  once  such  a  trail  of  thought 
had  been  found  by  the  lad  of  fourteen  beside  him, 
there  would  be  no  rest  for  Bob  until  he  followed  that 
thought  to  its  lair.  Knowing  this,  he  spoke  out  of 
his  wisdom. 

"Son,  if  I  was  you,  I'd  go  to  headquarters  to  find 
out  what  I  can't  tell  ye ;  go  to  old  Carmastic.  He 
knows;  an'  what  he  has  a  mind  to  tell  ye,  ye  can 
depend  on  even  if  't  ain't  much.  He's  been  livin'  on 
this  earth  now  for  more'n  seventy  years,  an'  he  knows 
a  thing  or  two  'bout  it  that  we  don't  know.  Only 
ye  mind  this :  he  knows  it  in  the  Injun  way,  not  in 
our  way,  not  the  white  man's  —  and  you're  white, 
never  forget  that." 

Bob  hammered  away  hard  at  the  brass  before 
answering. 


144  Out  of  the  Silences 

"I'll  go  this  afternoon,"  was  all  he  said. 

He  worked  until  near  midday.  After  that  he  was 
missing.  The  saddle-maker  smiled  to  himself,  but 
was  silent  when  Jane  asked  where  Little  Owl  had 
gone. 

4 

That  afternoon,  Carmastic,  having  finished  his 
midday  pipe,  lay  down  beneath  a  full  leaved  maple 
in  the  woods  behind  his  tepee  and  went  to  sleep. 
When  he  awoke  a  westering  sunbeam  lay  hot  across 
his  eyes,  and  something,  either  a  crawling,  creeping, 
or  flying  thing,  was  tickling  his  nose.  In  half  sleep 
he  brushed  it  aside,  but  what  his  hand  struck  was  no 
living  thing,  no  intrusive  insect.  He  started  broad 
awake;  sat  up  alert.  The  thing  was  a  piece  of 
bark  of  the  paper  birch  suspended  from  a  string  tied 
to  a  lower  branch  of  the  shadowing  maple. 

He  studied  the  piece  of  white  bark.  There  was 
a  picture  of  a  tree  on  it.  He  knew  that  tree:  the 
great  sycamore  in  the  forest  towards  the  lake.  There 
were  three  lines  converging  at  the  roots  of  the  tree. 
He  read  that  easily :  the  three  trails  from  west  and 
south  and  north  that  crossed  at  that  point.  At  the 
foot  of  the  tree  were  a  man  and  a  boy.  Beneath  the 
pictograph,  in  the  syllabic  Cree  symbols,  a  sentence : 

"The  Son  of  the  Silent  Places  wants  speech  with 
Carmastic." 

Then  another  pictograph  of  the  sun  in  the  west 
and  the  sign  for  immediate  action.  The  old  medicine- 
man smiled  at  the  boy's  cleverness.  Not  with  all  his 
Indian  inheritance  would  Chum  ever  have  hit  upon 
such  a  device. 

"He  should  have  been  of  our  race;  his  brain  and 
thoughts  are  red,  although  his  skin  is  white,"  muttered 


The  Path  of  Life  145 

the  old  man.  He  rose  from  his  sitting  posture  with 
almost  the  spring  of  youth.  Something  in  this  boy 
brought  back  to  him  the  days  of  his  young  strength. 
He  would  meet  him  at  the  sycamore;  it  was  but 
three  miles  distant.  He  was  curious  to  know  the 
boy's  need  of  him. 

5 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  the  boy  pleaded  as  the  two 
sat  together  beneath  the  tree.  He  had  made  the 
old  man  aware  of  what  Chum  had  said  about  his 
fasting,  and  declared  he  could  not  understand  what 
he  meant.  "How  do  you  do  it?" 

"You  must  fast  till  you  dream." 

"But  what  if  I  don't  dream?     I  shall  starve." 

The  old  man  smiled.  "No,  you  will  not  starve,  for 
the  dreams  always  come  with  the  fasting,  after  three, 
four,  five  days  —  none  can  say." 

"I  can  fast  five  days,  no  more."  Bob  spoke 
decidedly.  He  knew  what  it  was  to  be  hungry,  to 
keep  an  enforced  fast.  The  memory  of  those  weeks 
in  the  dugout  was  burned  in  as  with  acid. 

"That  is  your  test,  your  trial." 

"And  if  I  stand  it,  what  then?" 

"You  must  fast  till  you  dream;  and  that  dream, 
my  son,  is  your  '  medicine '  —  your  part  of  that  Life 
that  never  was  born,  because  it  always  was,  is,  and 
will  be.  We  Indians  name  it  with  a  name :  Manedo. 
I  speak  a  mystery ;  you  cannot  know  of  it.  You 
shall  know  of  it  only  when  life  shall  have  taught  you 
its  meaning." 

"But  I  don't  understand." 

"It  is  not  given  to  such  as  you  to  understand  — 
not  for  years.  Wait,  my  son ;  wait,  watch,  listen. 
Listen  to  the  loon  calling  over  the  lake;  watch  her 


146  Out  of  the  Silences 

ways  in  the  sky.  Listen  to  the  beaver  gnawing 
through  a  tree  trunk;  learn  her  ways.  Watch  the 
lights  in  the  Great  North  that  run  to  and  fro  and  no 
man  knows  whence  they  come  or  whither  they  go ; 
you  shall  see  signs.  Watch  the  stars  in  their  courses ; 
trace  the  pathway  of  the  spirits  along  that  great 
white  way  that  you  may  see  in  the  heated  nights  of 
summer;  learn  to  know  the  clouds." 

"I  saw  the  dancing  fires  in  the  North  just  before  we 
heard  the  crows  last  spring.  I  know  the  way  of  the 
wind  by  the  clouds  passing,  and  I  have  seen  spirits 
walking  — " 

The  seer  interrupted  him.  He  knew  only  too  well 
the  stories  conjured  by  the  boy's  imagination  and 
he  did  not  wish  to  indulge  him,  not  just  now.  He 
continued  speaking  slowly  and  solemnly : 

"Look  daily  upon  the  earth-mother  that  is  heavy 
with  what  is  about  to  be  born  —  grass,  corn,  wheat, 
rice :  things  by  which  men  live  this  life.  Hearken 
to  the  soft  goings  of  the  forest  creatures ;  learn  all 
their  ways;  find  out  their  nests  and  holes  and 
lairs." 

"I  do  that  now." 

"True,  and  by  that  token  you  may  know  you  are 
on  the  right  trail  to  acquire  knowledge." 

"But  when  does  a  boy  have  to  begin  to  fast?" 

"When  he  is  about  to  become  a  man.  Listen, 
Little  Owl:  you  are  old  for  your  years,  old  and  in 
many  ways  already  wise.  You  know  how  the  bird 
breaks  forth  from  the  egg;  how  the  cub  comes  forth 
from  its  mother.  After  your  fast  you  will  know  what 
it  is  to  be  a  man,  for  then  you  will  have  set  your  feet 
firmly  in  the  path  of  life,  and  your  medicine  will 
always  be  with  you  —  a  part  of  you." 


The  Path  of  Life  147 

"But  what  will  the  medicine  be?  How  can  I  take 
it  with  me?  I  can  not  taste  it,  see  it,  handle  it. 
You  say  it  is  a  dream.  Dreams  are  not  real." 

"My  son,  it  is  provided  that  at  times  men  must  do, 
without  understanding  what  they  do.  At  times  words 
are  dumb  and  only  deeds  have  tongues." 

"But  Chum  says  I  can't  tell  the  dream  to  any  one." 

"True,  you  may  not.  Keep  it  to  yourself.  It  is 
a  part  of  you.  Guard  it  in  your  heart.  It  is  yours 
till  you  shall  have  gone  forth  on  the  warpath  and 
fought  as  a  man  fights  —  to  victory.  Then  you  may 
sing  it  for  all  to  hear,  for  you  have  won  the  right  to 
sing  it." 

" Mgh ! "  The  tone  was  sceptical.  "But  what  can 
I  do  about  it  if  I  don't  go  to  war  ?  Wars  have  to  be 
made ;  I  have  read  that  in  my  Book." 

"Yes,  you  have  read  of  wars  and  the  mighty  hosts 
of  the  tribes  going  forth  to  victory.  I  have  respect 
for  that  Book ;  it  tells,  and  tells  truly,  how  men  war. 
And  you  have  read  me  a  song,  sung  after  war  victory 
—  a  war  song.  I  forget  the  woman's  name,  but  she 
sang  it  even  as  the  women  of  my  father's  time  sang ; 
as  my  mother,  the  medicine-woman,  sang  after  my 
father's  victory  over  the  Sioux  — " 

"Oh,  I  know;    you  mean  Deborah." 

"You  have  said  —  a  woman  like  unto  my  mother. 
If  the  white  men  would  read  and  ponder  your  Book 
they  could  better  understand  their  red  brothers,  for 
their  fathers  did  even  as  our  fathers  have  done. 
You  have  told  me  much,  and  what  you  have  told 
me  is  true ;  I  know  it  stands  written  in  the  Book." 

"So  if  I  can  go  to  war,  —  and  win,  —  you  say  I 
can  sing  a  song  about  my  dream  ? " 

"You  have  said." 


148  Out  of  the  Silences 

"But  what  do  the  men  do  that  don't  get  the  chance 
to  go  to  war?  Don't  they  ever  tell  their  dream?" 

"Not  aloud,  Little  Owl,  not  aloud  for  man,  or 
bird,  or  beast  to  hear ;  the  medicine  would  leave 
them ;  they  would  lose  a  part  of  their  life.  —  Have 
you  ever  seen  a  little  banner,  not  a  war  banner, 
on  a  pole  in  front  of  hut  or  tepee  ?  With  a  picture  on 
it  —  it  might  be  an  animal,  a  bird,  a  fish?" 

Bob  nodded  gravely.  "I  have  seen  such  in  the 
north,  this  side  of  Boissevain,  the  first  time  the 
saddle-maker  took  McGillie  and  me  to  see  the  train, 
and  the  engine  that  snorts  like  a  horse." 

"Tell  me  about  it."  Carmastic  spoke  guilelessly. 
He  must  know  whether  this  were  fiction  or  truth 
before  giving  more  explanations. 

"It  was  a  pole  just  outside  a  little  hut  —  an  old 
piece  of  canvas  in  a  frame ;  and  on  it  was  painted 
some  kind  of  a  bird.  It  could  be  most  anything ;  I 
couldn't  see  head  or  tail  to  it.  But  it  was  a  bird," 
he  said  emphatically. 

"How  do  you  know  it  was  a  bird?" 

Bob  smiled.  "Because  it  had  wings,  plain  enough 
to  see.  McGillie  saw  them  too,  and  the  saddle- 
maker  said  it  was  somebody's  'medicine.'" 

"It  is  well;  you  have  seen.  The  man  who  drew 
that  picture  of  the  bird  had  never  followed  the  war- 
path; he  could  never  sing  his  song  that  all  might 
hear.  But  he  made  a  picture  of  his  dream,  and  he 
calls  it  the  '  song-that-was-never-sung ' ;  it  is  our 
custom.  A  man  may  not  keep  his  dream,  his  medicine, 
forever  hidden ;  it  works  him  ill.  It  is  for  his  health 
that  he  show  the  dream  to  those  who  pass  on  the 
trail;  but  it  remains  unsung  unless  he  follow  the 
warpath." 


The  Path  of  Life  149 

Bob  sat  on  his  heels  before  the  old  medicine-man 
pondering  this  matter  of  unsong  songs,  and  dreams 
that  were  "medicine."  Carmastic  studied  the  boy's 
expressive  face.  He  took  his  long  pipe,  filled  it  and 
smoked  tranquilly.  The  boy  paid  no  attention  to 
him.  Nor  did  he  lift  his  eyes  when  a  partridge, 
that  was  brooding  her  late  chicks,  so  brown  and 
speckled  that  they  were  scarcely  to  be  discerned 
among  the  dried  brown  leaves  of  her  make-shift  nest 
in  the  underbrush  just  behind  Bob,  started  up  in 
sudden  whir  of  terror  at  the  smoke,  and  flopped 
away,  as  if  broken- winged,  in  order  to  decoy  the 
humans  from  her  young. 

So  the  minutes  passed.  It  was  a  hot  day.  Across 
the  lake  the  heated  atmosphere  quivered  like  smoke. 
The  Indian  and  boy  sat  in  the  deep  shade  of  the  great 
sycamore.  There  was  no  breath  of  air,  and  the  myriad 
insect  life  of  midsummer  was  droning  and  shrilling  its 
loudest.  At  last  Bob  spoke. 

"Medicine-man,  when  are  the  Indians  coming  for 
their  great  Sun  Ceremony?" 

"Next  month.     Why,  Little  Owl?" 

"Because  I  want  to  be  free  to  see  all  I  can.  I  will 
make  my  fast  before  that ;  then  I  am  free  to  eat,  and 
I  shall  not  have  to  think :  Now  you  must  go  hungry 
while  the  Indians  are  feasting." 

"It  is  well,  Little  Owl.  I  will  go  now.  Will  you 
come?" 

"No,  I  want  to  see  the  old  hen  come  back  to  her 
nest;  the  chicks  can't  be  a  day  old  yet,  or  they 
would  run  away.  They're  nimble  like  mice  on  the 
second  day."  He  took  one  of  the  tiny  brown  bird 
morsels  in  his  hand  and  brooded  it. 

Carmastic  smiled  benevolently.     "You  are  a  son 


150  Out  of  the  Silences 

of  the  earth,  Little  Owl.    The  Earth-mother  knows 
her  own."    He  turned  into  the  woods. 
6 

Bob  watched  him  out  of  sight.  Then  he  pretended 
to  play  with  the  chicks,  handling  them  very  gently 
and  not  disturbing  the  queer  nest  that  was  a  mere 
collection  of  leaves  and  grass.  It  looked  to  be  a  part 
of  the  ground.  He  wondered  if  the  medicine-man 
were  watching  him ;  but  he  did  not  raise  his  head  to 
see. 

After  a  while  he  removed  into  the  underbrush  a  few 
yards  from  the  nest,  and  waited  for  the  hen  to  return. 
But  he  waited  in  vain.  The  sun  was  lowering  to  the 
west  behind  the  forest;  the  heated  atmosphere 
cooled  gradually  and  settled  heavily  upon  the  lake 
waters  in  violet  mist.  The  red  of  the  sun  through  the 
heat-haze  glowed  like  hard  maple  coals  seen  through 
campfire  ashes.  Bob  listened.  There  was  no  sound 
but  the  mad  last-of-the-day  humming,  chirping, 
whirring  of  bee,  cricket,  grasshopper,  and  the  fine 
buzzsawing  of  gnat  and  summer  fly. 

He  looked  at  the  sycamore.  The  coast  was  at  last 
clear.  He  shinned  up  the  trunk  to  the  first  fork 
and  rested  there  for  his  next  climb.  Up  and  up  he 
worked  along  among  the  boughs,  choosing  his  way 
cautiously  through  this  leafy  upward  trail.  Carefully 
placing  a  foot  here  and  there,  as  opportunity  and  a 
forking  limb  offered,  he  made  his  way  towards  the 
top  —  sixty  feet,  seventy  feet;  he  was  in  the  leafy 
crown.  Then  he  sat  down  lightly  and  warily  on  the 
stout  branch  of  a  half  bare  limb,  and  looked  about  him. 

The  sycamore's  crown  was  irregular.  Evidently 
some  forest  tree  had  grown  against  it  a  hundred 
years  ago  and  been  levelled  long,  long  after  the  giant 


The  Path  of  Life  151 

sycamore  had  attained  its  growth.  The  crowding 
pressure  of  this  tree  had  left  the  leafy  crown  far  from 
symmetrical,  for  branches  had  atrophied,  or  broken 
off,  so  leaving  an  open  space  free  from  much  foliage. 
Through  this  clearing  in  the  leafy  forest  of  his  treetop, 
Bob  could  look  far  away  across  the  lake  to  the  bluffs 
beyond  —  mere  misty  outlines  now  because  of  the 
heat-haze.  Beneath  him  he  could  see  spread  out  the 
grassy  bluff  and  on  two  sides  of  it  the  forest.  Out 
over  the  top  of  that  forest  he  could  look  in  two 
directions ;  each  leaf  therein  was  quiet,  unmoved  by 
any  breeze.  He  wondered  what  it  might  be  like  up 
there  in  a  high  wind  and  chuckled  gleefully,  anticipat- 
ing the  sport  of  it  when  he  should  have  made  his  nest. 

7 

Little  Owl's  Sittings  were  many  during  the  next 
three  days.  The  saddle-maker  was  dimly  aware  of 
them  all,  but  he  played,  through  policy,  the  un- 
observant. One  took  place  at  high  noon ;  two  during 
the  long  twilight  of  the  second  day's  migrations ;  the 
last  one  at  night  under  a  full  moon.  The  dogs 
were  shut  up  in  the  shed  during  these  flights. 
The  pony  was  requisitioned.  Two  broad  boards 
weather-beaten  to  gray,  a  fifty  foot  coil  of  rope  like- 
wise weathered  dark  to  partial  invisibility  —  these 
things  disappeared  one  by  one  from  the  shed. 

Once  Bill  Plunket  saw  by  the  light  of  the  full 
moon  the  unshodden  pony,  distorted  into  a  pannier- 
carrying  donkey  by  a  bundle  of  hay  across  his 
back,  loping  over  the  grass ;  saw  Little  Owl  throw 
his  blanket  across  the  hay,  mount  his  pony  with  the 
evident  intention  of  holding  down  the  bundle,  and 
disappear  along  the  trail  that  led  to  the  north. 

That  evening  he  was  sitting  as  usual  in  the  shed 


152  Out  of  the  Silences 

door,  smoking  his  before  bedtime  pipe,  when  the 
pony  came  trotting  back,  his  proportions  again 
normal.  The  -boy  was  lying  out  along  his  back, 
head  to  tail.  Bob  put  up  the  horse;  then  he  sat 
down  beside  Plunket. 

"Will  you  lend  me  your  water-bottle,  Plunket? 
McGillie  took  his  away  with  him.  I  mean  the  one 
with  the  strap  on  it." 

"Sure,  Son.     Goin'  to  the  spring  to-night?" 

"Not  to-night."  He  went  to  the  big  water-butt 
sunk  in  the  ground  just  within  the  shed  and  filled 
the  canteen. 

The  saddle-maker  made  no  remark.  He  read  the 
signs :  the  boy  was  making  ready  to  begin  his  fast. 

The  dogs,  loving  the  night-light  in  the  full  of  the 
moon,  had  been  nosing  about  in  the  woods  to  stir  up 
what  should  chance  to  be  there,  and  now  by  twos  and 
threes  came  pacing  leisurely  homewards.  At  a  low 
whistle  from  Bob  they  raced  to  him  within  the  shed. 
He  closed  the  door  on  them  and  jpolted  it.  Thereupon 
followed  sudden  howls  of  protest;  then  quiet  — 
at  that  moment  every  nose  being  glued  to  the  crack 
along  the  threshold. 

"Plunket,  I'm  going  to  make  my  fast  now  an'  get 
through  with  it,  and  don't  you  give  me  away  to  'em." 

"Not  goin'  across  the  lake,  hey?"  The  saddle- 
maker  put  that  question  in  a  tone  that  made  Bob 
glad  he  had  chosen  another  and  more  neighborly 
locality. 

"No,  not  there  —  not  near  so  far  as  that." 

He  slipped  the  water-bottle  strap  over  his  head ; 
kicked  off  his  moccasins  and  took  them  in  his  hand. 

"Good-night,  Plunket.  Keep  the  dogs  in  for  the 
night,  an'  —  don't  tell  Jane." 


The  Path  of  Life  153 

"Just  as  you  say,  Son.  Anything  the  old  man  can 
do,  let  him  know." 

"Sure  I  will."  The  tone  was  so  hearty  that  the 
saddle-maker  wondered  if  the  boy  were  already  re- 
gretting his  decision  not  to  be  outdone  by  Chum  ; 
for  he  knew  that  emulation  of  the  Indian  boy  was  at 
the  root  of  this  venture. 

Barefooted,  the  boy  shuffled  through  the  grass 
already  wet  with  a  heavy  dew.  Stepping  into  an 
old  watering-trough  he  walked  the  length  of  it; 
then  jumped  out,  doubled  on  his  steps,  and  broke 
into  a  noiseless  trot  as  he  entered  the  north  trail. 

After  the  splash  of  the  water  under  the  boy's  feet, 
the  saddle-maker  heard  no  further  sound.  He 
chuckled. 

"He's  put  'em  off  the  scent;    beats  an  Injun  all 
holler,  an'  only  five  year  at  it." 
8 

It  was  a  wonderful  experience  for  the  growing 
boy  —  those  three  nights  that  followed. 

For  the  first  half  of  that  night  he  slept  only  fitfully. 
The  environment  was  so  unreal.  The  leaves  also 
slept.  There  was  no  wind ;  but  the  forest  was  full 
of  strange  undaytime  comings  and  goings,  soft 
nestlings  and  flutterings.  Very  near  the  latter 
seemed  to  Bob,  lying  in  his  improvised  nest  so  high 
above  the  ground.  They  were  not  earth  noises 
either. 

Once  something  brushed  the  top  of  his  head.  He 
threw  up  his  hand  quickly  and  struck  a  fluff  of 
feathers ;  —  a  few  seconds  and  the  weird,  trembling, 
crescendo  circumflex  note  of  the  screech  owl  pierced 
his  very  eardrums.  The  unexpectedness,  the  near- 
ness of  the  sound,  humped  the  gooseflesh  over  his 


154  Out  °f  the  Silences 

whole  body.  He  could  feel  his  scalp  rise.  Then  he 
pooh-poohed  his  own  unnecessary  fright  and  shook 
back  into  a  feeling  of  comparative  safety. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  he  fell  asleep,  only  to 
be  wakened  by  the  supreme  effort  of  a  timber  wolf 
to  serenade  the  moon.  A  perpendicular  of  seventy 
feet  was  decidedly  reassuring  to  Bob  during  the  hour 
in  which  the  minstrel  raised  his  voice.  He  couldn't 
help  it  —  he  began  to  consider  the  animals  that 
climb  trees,  easily.  .  . 

Nor  bird,  nor  sun,  nor  drop  of  moisture  dripping 
from  the  drinking  leaves  roused  him  before  the  sun 
was  three  hours  high. 

He  made  a  careful  descent  then,  but  midway  of 
his  tree-trail,  so  he  called  it,  stopped  to  reconnoitre 
his  base.  Peering  down  through  the  lower  limbs  he 
spied  two  Indians  sprawled  beneath  the  tree  —  stupid, 
dead  to  the  world,  overcome  with  liquor.  He 
crawled  upwards  again  to  wait  until  they  recovered. 

How  he  longed  to  hook  their  blankets !  How  his 
ringers  twitched  in  his  desire  to  despoil  them  of  the 
tawdry  furbelows  some  trader  had  palmed  off  on  them 
with  the  liquor.  How  he  ached  to  stampede  their 
ponies  grazing  so  peaceably.  He  dared  not  —  not 
now !  In  the  afternoon,  he  saw  them  lurch  across 
the  grass  to  catch  their  ponies;  watched  them 
staggering  towards  the  north  trail. 

During  the  day,  which  seemed  to  this  boy  of  active 
limbs  forty-eight  hours  long,  a  few  squirrels,  inquisitive 
as  usual,  watched  him  from  neighboring  branches. 
Their  chatter  amused  him.  He  answered  them  in 
sounds  that  were  not  to  be  distinguished  from  their 
own  tongue  —  so  perfectly  imitated  in  truth,  that 
they  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  captivated  by  the  big 


The  Path  of  Life  155 

chattering  presence  of  one  not  their  own.  But  at 
the  end  of  the  first  twenty-four  hours  Bob  was  dis- 
tinctly bored;  he  was  also  hungry  —  and  he  had 
dreamed  no  dreams  during  the  night. 

The  second  night  he  slept  the  sleep  of  the  blessed, 
although  wearied  with  doing  nothing  and  faint  from 
fasting ;  but  no  dream  visited  him. 

And  that  second  day  was  like  unto  the  first,  only 
more  so.  Once  he  ventured  down  into  the  woods, 
drawn  by  the  gnawing  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  He 
knew  where  there  was  a  fine  black  birch.  He  was 
mad  to  chew  some  of  the  bark  from  the  tender  twigs. 
Halfway  he  stopped  short,  clenched  his  hands,  then, 
turning  like  a  flash,  ran  for  the  sycamore,  ran  from 
temptation.  He  dared  not  break  his  fast.  He  was 
not  going  to  be  outdone  by  Chum ;  and  Chum 
would  keep  his,  for  he  was  an  Indian ;  the  fast  was  his 
honor.  He  would  show  him  that  a  white  boy  could 
do  all  an  Indian  could,  and  this  was  his  honor. 

He  began  to  envy  Chum,  for  by  this  time  either  he 
was  through  with  his  fasting,  or  he  was  dead.  But  if 
Chum  had  held  out,  and  he  believed  he  had  (there 
was  good  stuff  in  Chum  and  he  wasn't  the  son  of  a 
headman  and  grandson  of  a  medicine-man  for  noth- 
ing), he  vowed  he  would.  This  was  the  tenor  of  all 
his  thoughts  —  this  and  the  thought  of  his  emptiness 
during  all  that  day. 

With  set  teeth  and  trembling  stomach  he  laid  him- 
self carefully  in  his  nest  and  prayed  with  all  the  fervor 
of  the  old  prophets  —  much  of  this  prayer  vocabulary 
was  borrowed  from  them  —  for  a  dream  and  daylight, 
that  he  might  be  free  again.  But  he  could  not  sleep ; 
try  as  he  might  his  eyes  would  not  stay  shut. 

Heavy  clouds  coming  up  over  the  lake  at  sunset 


156  Out  of  the  Silences 

obscured  the  moon.  The  close,  hot  atmosphere 
seemed  to  stifle  him.  Now  and  then  a  lightning  flash 
gleamed  on  the  lake  waters.  Low  thunder  broke 
afar  in  the  mountains.  Soon  followed  a  sound  that 
deafened  Bob  to  all  noises  exterior  to  the  periphery  of 
his  outer  ear  :  the  sudden  patter  of  rain  on  the  myriads 
of  forest  leaves  —  then  the  deluge. 

He  pulled  his  blanket  about  him,  hid  his  head, 
and  wondered  why  he  was  born  to  this! 

The  deluge  ceased,  the  gentle  patter  of  rain  was 
renewed ;  little  by  little  even  that  died  away,  and 
only  the  drip,  drip  of  the  moisture-laden  foliage 
could  be  heard.  The  air  was  absolutely  without 
motion.  The  boy  was  drenched  to  his  skin. 

Suddenly,  without  warning  of  any  kind,  he  heard 
the  oncoming  roar  of  a  mighty  wind.  Straight  from 
the  north  it  came,  from  Rupert's  Land  and  the  Arctic 
Circle.  When  it  struck  the  forest  the  branches 
tossed  and  writhed  furiously ;  the  great  limbs  bowed 
and  moaned  beneath  it ;  the  trunks  strained,  squeak- 
ing, and  boughs  were  wrenched  from  them;  top- 
heavy  old  trees  were  uprooted.  It  was  pitch  black  in 
this  howling  chaos  of  sound. 

The  boy  clung  in  desperation  to  the  two  boards 
and  the  rope  he  kept  knotted  around  a  stout  branch 
"in  case."  During  the  first  lull  in  the  passing  of  that 
mighty  hurricane  wind,  which  lasted  less  than  half  a 
minute,  he  tied  the  free  end  of  the  rope  around  him 
under  his  arms.  It  took  time  and  manoeuvring. 
This  accomplished,  he  felt  better.  Then  the  wind 
arose  again,  but  not  in  its  might,  and  blew  steadily, 
almost  icily  cold,  until  the  boy  was  chilled  through 
and  through  in  the  rain-soaked  blanket,  shirt,  and 
leggings. 


The  Path  of  Life  157 

Now  it  was  that  Bob,  in  the  best  Scriptural  text 
known  to  him,  and  in  a  vocabulary  that  admitted  of 
no  criticism  in  the  way  of  forcefulness,  cursed  all 
Indians  —  cursed  them  by  name,  severally  and 
tribally.  Carmastic  did  not  escape,  neither  Chum, 
nor  all  their  relations  to  the  third  degree  —  Cree, 
Chippewa,  Sioux,  Blackfoot,  Assiniboine,  all  came 
in  for  their  share;  for  to  him  they  were  even  as  the 
tribes  of  Israel :  they  had  forgotten  God,  and  brought 
about  this  horrible  state  of  affairs  with  their  Baal- 
worship.  He  cursed  all  their  tomfoolery,  their  fasts, 
their  feasts,  their  customs,  their  fool  'medicine.' 
In  the  end  he  cursed  himself  for  being  fooled  by  them. 
He  was  wretchedly  cold,  miserably  faint  with  fasting, 
and  damnably  mad.  This  last  condition  together  with 
the  energy  of  his  language  saved  the  night  for  him. 

The  moon  came  out.  Scudding  clouds  filled  the 
sky ;  so  fast  they  sailed  the  motion  made  him  dizzy. 
The  stars  began  to  shine  out  clear  and  sharp  in  the 
east.  The  shivering  faster,  with  a  last  out-of-the- 
depths  "Damn  it  all",  hunched  down  into  his  blanket 
and,  through  sheer  exhaustion,  fell  asleep. 

9 

It  was  a  marvellous  sunrise  to  which  he  awoke. 
There  was  still  a  strong  breeze  with  almost  a  touch 
of  frost  in  it.  The  lake  waters  were  ruffled  and 
heaving  dark  gray  under  the  cold  morning  skies. 
The  bluffs  on  the  opposite  shore  of  the  lake  were 
outlined  sharply  and  black  against  the  pure  saffron 
red  in  the  east.  The  sun,  golden,  yet  without  nimbus, 
climbed  over  them. 

Bob  watched  it  with  greatening  eyes.  He  noticed, 
at  last,  a  tiny  brown  bird  with  white-tipped  wings 
clinging  to  the  rope.  He  did  not  know  it.  The  great 


158  Out  of  the  Silences 

wind  must  have  brought  it  from  its  far  home  in  the 
north.  It  was  all  ruffed  and  fluffed  in  its  misery. 
The  boy  put  out  his  hand  and  took  the  poor  numb 
bit  of  forest  flotsam  on  his  palm,  and  opening  his  wet 
shirt  warmed  the  bird  against  his  heart. 

He  told  of  this  once  only,  long  years  afterwards. 

When  warmed,  chirping,  and  struggling,  he  let  it  go. 
Then  he  gathered  up  his  own  stiffened  legs  and  setting 
them  carefully  on  the  boards  rubbed  them  down.  He 
lowered  the  boards  through  the  branches.  Then 
he  spat  on  his  hands,  worked  his  way  downwards, 
and,  dropping  to  the  ground,  made  his  way  home 
as  best  he  could  in  the  circumstances. 

The  saddle-maker  watching  from  the  woods  along 
the  south  trail  saw  him  start ;  saw  that  the  strength 
had  gone  out  of  the  boy  and,  seeing  that,  he,  too,  made 
for  home  by  a  crosscut  through  wet  underbrush. 

When  Bob  reached  the  shed  he  tumbled  on  the 
threshold.  Bill  Plunket,  coming  from  the  house, 
brought  him  only  a  bowl  of  steaming  tea  to  break 
his  fast,  for  caution  was  needed. 

He  was  about  to  put  a  question  to  the  boy  after  he 
had  gulped  this  refreshment,  but  suddenly  Bob  lifted 
his  head,  looking  at  him  gratefully.  That  one  look 
into  the  lad's  face  restrained  Bill  Plunket  for  all  time 
from  asking  any  questions  concerning  his  experi- 
ence. What  he  saw  there  was  a  strangely  mystical 
light  that  half  veiled  the  boy's  usually  alert  and 
animated  features. 

The  saddle-maker  knew  that  the  boy  had  dreamed 
his  dream ;  had  found  his  "  medicine."  For  a  moment 
he  felt  awed  in  the  presence  of  something  it  was  not 
given  him  to  understand. 

From  that  day  he  treated  him  as  a  man. 


The  Path  of  Life  159 

STRAINING  AT  THE  LEASH 
i 

That  the  supreme  change  from  adolescence  to 
manhood  was  indeed  taking  place,  if  only  in  the  boy's 
spirit,  the  saddle-maker  knew  within  the  next  month. 
It  sometimes  happens  that  a  quickly  maturing 
mentality  is  the  scout,  not  the  vanguard,  of  the  physi- 
cal change.  It  was  so  in  Bob's  case. 

The  great  Sun  Ceremony  was  a  thing  of  the  past. 
What  there  was  to  see  and  hear  —  the  gathering  of  a 
hundred  or  two  Indians  from  the  four  points  of  the 
compass,  the  chants,  the  songs,  the  dances  —  Bob 
had  observed  from  a  lowly  position,  lying  prone  on 
his  stomach  and  covered  with  dead  leaves  and  green 
branches.  He  lay  in  the  woods  as  near  as  possible 
to  the  tepees  in  order  to  hear  and  absorb  what  might 
be  worth  hearing  and  absorbing. 

From  his  outlook  in  the  sycamore  he  took  a  general 
survey  of  the  whole  situation  —  the  horseshoe  circle 
of  tepees  opening  to  the  east  and  the  lake ;  the  tem- 
porary sacred  tepee  of  the  priests  also  open  to  the 
east ;  the  building  of  the  great  lodge,  the  comings  and 
goings  of  Indians  in  their  beaded  magnificence  of 
sash,  headband,  or  breastplate,  in  ornamented 
buckskin  or  gayly  colored  blankets.  It  satisfied  his 
curiosity  in  part,  but  the  performance  was  dis- 
appointing because  he  was  of  the  white  race  and 
uninitiated. 

He  was  talking  about  it  with  the  saddle-maker 
after  it  was  over.  The  Indians  had  already  gone  their 
several  ways.  The  great  lodge  was  left  as  usual  for 
wind  and  weather  to  demolish.  The  grassy  bluff  had 
suffered  a  change :  the  grass  was  dried,  worn  and 
shiny.  Here  and  there  it  was  dug  up  by  ponies' 


160  Out  of  the  Silences 

impatient  hoofs.  Huge  charred  spots,  where  for 
eight  days  campfires  had  burned,  disfigured  it.  Bob 
viewed  the  spoliation  of  the  charms  of  his  beloved 
woods  with  strong  disapproval. 

"  You  know,  Plunket,  I  can  stand  everything  but 
their  messin'  up." 

The  saddle-maker  nodded  sympathetic  assent.  He 
had  not  struggled  for  four  years  against  Jane's  special- 
ity without  gaining  sad  experience  in  that  commodity. 

"An'  I  wish  sometimes  — "  He  did  not  finish  that 
sentence.  Although  the  saddle-maker  was  sure  he 
knew  what  the  ending  would  have  been,  he  did  not 
wish  to  anticipate  it. 

"Wish  wot?" 

Bob's  thoughts  for  a  moment  were  painful. 

"Plunket,  you  told  me  once  never  to  forget  I  was 
white  — •  a  white  man.  I' —  I  can't  forget  it,  if  I 
wanted  to,  and  I  don't  —  not  with  them." 

"No  more  ye  can't,  Son;  I  know." 

Something  in  the  tone  made  Bob  lift  has  eyes  to 
the  saddle-maker's.  What  he  saw  there  assured 
him  that  he  would  be  understood  without  much  need 
of  further  explanation. 

"You  see,  I  can  ride,  an'  swim,  an'  shoot,  an'  trap, 
an'  scout  most  as  well  as  the  Injun  boys;  an',"  — 
with  a  chuckle,  —  "I  can  beat  'em  singin'  an'  dancin' 
every  time,  all  except  that  shake  in  their  throats 
they  keep  up  some  of  'em  for  hours  when  they  sing. 
It  trembles  just  like  the  beginning  of  the  screech 
owl's  yell.  But,  you  see,  I  can't  be  like  'em  other 
ways." 

"No  more  ye  can't." 

"And  I  don't  want  to  be."  There  was  no  uncer- 
tainty in  this  statement. 


The  Path  of  Life  161 

"In  course  ye  don't;   *t  ain't  human  nature." 

"  I  want  to  be  like  my  own  —  white." 

"No  man  can  blame  ye  for  wantin'  to  be  that, 
Son." 

"Even  McGillie  isn't  all  white,  is  he?" 

"Nope;  only  three-quarters  —  my  two  kids  are 
half  an'  half,"  he  added  as  a  matter  of  fact. 

"You  see,  I  like  'em  all  —  McGillie,  an'  Chum,  an' 
Tom  an'  Jerry,  an'  Kinni-kinnik's  brothers,  an'  — 
an'  the  medicine-man,  an'  all  of  'em,  Kinni-kinnik 
too." 

The  saddle-maker  interrupted  him.  He  wanted  to 
feel  the  way  of  the  wind  that  had  set  so  strongly  in  the 
little  pappoose's  direction  ever  since  Bob  first  saw 
her. 

"Yep,  ye  set  a  sight  by  that  little  girl.  I  don't 
blame  ye,  she's  a  charmer;  growin'  up  mighty  fast 
too.  An'  she  ain't  had  no  eyes  for  any  boy  but 
Bob  Collamore  since  ye  give  her  that  doll  ye  bought 
with  yer  first  earnin's." 

Bob  smiled  knowingly.  "That's  what  McGillie 
got  so  mad  with  me  'bout.  We  fought  for  her." 
He  chuckled ;  he  was  evidently  enjoying  the  remem- 
brance of  his  challenge  to  single  combat. 

"Ye  fought  for  her!  Well,  that's  news  to  me; 
but  I  know  there  was  somp'in'  between  ye  one  while 
the  way  ye  kept  glowerin'  at  one  'nother." 

"Yep;  we  made  a  kind  of  a  treaty  we  wouldn't 
tell.  It  was  to  last  two  years.  Time's  up  now." 

"What  was  yer  treaty,  as  ye  call  it?  Any  Injun 
doin's?" 

"Kind  o'  that;  we  made  ourselves  blood- 
brothers—" 

"Did,  hey?" 


162  Out  of  the  Silences 

"Yep.  An'  now  I'd  die  for  McGillie,  an'  he'd  die 
for  me." 

The  saddle-maker  grunted  disapproval.  "  It's  'bout 
time  ye  went  to  yer  own  people  where  ye  won't 
be  opening  yer  veins  an'  drawin'  blood  an'  swappin* 
it  for  treaties.  How  did  ye  fight  ?" 

"Fists.  I  challenged  him."  (The  saddle-maker's 
eyes  wrinkled  prodigiously  at  the  corners.)  "  That's 
the  way  they  did  it  in  the  Book,  you  know.  Two 
men  from  two  tribes  used  to  go  outside  the  camp  an' 
fight  it  out ;  an'  the  one  who  come  out  on  top,  his 
tribe  was  the  best  feller." 

"Where  did  ye  fight  it  out?" 

"Off  in  the  woods  back  of  the  north  trail  —  you 
wasn't  to  home." 

"Mgh.     How  did  ye  come  out?" 

Bob  snickered  at  the  vision  conjured  up  by  that 
question. 

"T  was  a  draw." 

"How's  that?" 

"  Each  of  us  knocked  the  other  out,  at  the  same  time 
too.  McGillie  punched  me  one  in  my  stomach,  an' 
took  the  wind  out  of  me,  just  as  I  landed  him  one  on 
his  nose  —  Gosh,  but  it  bled  !  He  got  kind  o'  faint 
like,  an'  keeled  over;  an'  we  both  lay  out  there 
an'  couldn't  get  up  —  not  for  a  little  while."  He  burst 
out  laughing. 

"We  both  went  over  backwards  an'  we  couldn't 
get  up,  an'  the  dogs  — " 

He  laughed  peal  on  peal  at  the  remembrance. 

"An'  the  dogs,  his  dogs  an'  my  dogs,  thinkin'  we 
was  dead  an'  had  killed  each  other,  set  on  to  one 
'nother  with  teeth  and  claws.  They  bit  an'  clawed  an' 
chewed  ears,  an'  noses,  an'  throats,  an'  buttocks  — 


The  Path  of  Life  163 

it  didn't  matter  what,  so's  they  could  get  a  hold.  You 
could  hear  'em  two  miles!  We  thought  the  Injuns 
would  hear  'em.  An'  pretty  soon  we  sat  up  an' 
began  to  laugh  at  the  dogs  an'  st-boy  'em  till  McGillie 
said  there  wouldn't  be  a  whole  ear  or  tail  left  in  the 
crowd.  That's  how  the  bitch  lost  the  top  of  her  left 
ear  an'  McGillie's  black  collie  got  his  eye  half  dug 
out."  He  paused  for  breath,  and  to  relive  the  scene. 

"Then  McGillie  said  we  had  got  enough  of  it, 
an'  he  got  up,  reelin'  round  like  a  drunk  Injun.  I 
had  to  crawl,  for  I  couldn't  feel  any  bottom  to  my 
stomach  —  only  queer  in  my  backbone.  We  pulled 
together  an'  hauled  the  dogs  off.  An'  then  I  offered 
to  shake,  an'  we  shook.  The  next  day  we  made 
ourselves  blood-brothers,  an'  —  an'  then  —  I  told 
McGillie  he  might  have  Kinni-kinnik  for  all  I  cared. 
You  see,  McGillie  loved  her,  Plunket." 

The  seriousness  of  this  statement  nearly  upset  the 
saddle-maker's  gravity,  but  it  behooved  him,  too, 
to  treat  this  matter  seriously. 

"So  that's  the  way  of  it?  I  thought  it  was 
t'other  way  to." 

"Well,  you  see,  't  was  different  with  me.  I  did 
love  her,  but  it  wasn't  for  keeps,  Plunket.  Of  course 
I  loved  her,  or  I  wouldn't  spent  that  money  on  her 
doll.  I  wanted  to  marry  her  too.  /  reelly  did.  I  used 
to  think  it  would  be  kind  o'  nice  to  be  married,  you 
know,  an'  —  I  —  "  He  hesitated.  The  saddle- 
maker  wondered  what  revelations  of  a  boy's  mind  and 
heart  might  be  forthcoming,  but  he  said  nothing. 

" — You  see,  I  didn't  have  anybody;  I  mean  — 
well,  you  see  when  Kinni-kinnik's  pa  gets  back  home 
from  trappin',  her  ma's  so  awful  glad  to  see  him.  An' 
I  thought  't  would  be  kind  o'  nice  to  have  Kinni- 


164  Out  of  the  Silences 

kinnik  glad  to  see  me.  An'  that's  why  I  wanted  to 
marry  her." 

"Mm  —  Did  you  tell  her  so,  Son?" 

"No,  not  'bout  marryin';  besides,  I  got  over 
wan  tin'  to." 

"Oh,  ye  did,  did  ye?" 

"Yep."  Bob's  tongue  sought  his  left  cheek.  He 
appeared  to  meditate  on  his  statement. 

"What  made  ye  change  yer  mind  so  kind  o' 
sudden?"  The  saddle-maker  really  wanted  to  get 
at  the  root  of  the  incipient  romance. 

"Oh,  things— " 

"Wot  things?" 

"Oh,  just  things — "  He  bored  his  moccasinned 
toe  into  the  dirt. 

Bill  Plunket  knew  the  boy  too  well  to  press  him 
further.  He  knew  his  way.  He  would  chat  freely 
by  the  hour  about  any  matter  that  did  not  touch 
him  deeply,  but  no  Indian  could  guard  with  greater 
reserve  the  deeper  feelings.  It  was  baffling  to  the 
man,  for  he  acknowledged  to  himself  that  for  the 
five  years  the  boy  had  been  with  him  his  plummet  had 
failed  to  sound  the  depths  in  this  young  human's 
experience.  And  he  but  loved  him  the  more  for  it. 

"Well,  Son,  when  you  do  make  up  yer  mind  to 
marry,  mate  with  yer  own  kind  —  an'  remember 
wot  the  old  man  tells  ye." 

"I'll  remember  —  an',  Plunket?" 

"Wot  now,  Son?" 

"I'm  goin'  away  from  here." 

The  saddle-maker  knew  now  to  what  all  this 
apparently  desultory  talk  had  been  leading  up.  He 
said  nothing  in  reply  because,  at  that  moment,  he 
was  not  sure  what  he  ought  to  say. 


The  Path  of  Life  165 

Bob  looked  up  at  him  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye. 
In  his  boy's  way  he  dearly  loved  this  man,  but  of  the 
wrench  he  was  giving  him  by  this  sudden  announce- 
ment of  his  intention  he  could  have  no  conception. 
No  response  to  his  proposition  being  forthcoming, 
the  boy  went  on : 

"I  want  to  be  with  white  men  —  an'  live  like  a 
white  man." 

"I  don't  blame  ye,  Son.  It's  yer  right;  ye  was 
born  to  it.  Where  ye  goin'?"  He  turned  the  tables 
so  suddenly  on  the  boy  that  he  caught  him  at  a  dis- 
advantage. 

"I  don't  know  —  not  reelly." 

"Trappin'?" 

"Not  for  me." 

"Loggia'?" 

"Nope."  He  put  Bill  Plunket  off  the  scent  again 
by  saying:  "I  wish  you'd  tell  me  all  you  know 
'bout  my  folks.  I  want  to  know  everything." 

The  saddle-maker  had  never  been  asked  this 
question  by  the  boy.  He  realized  now  that  Bob  had 
been  biding  his  time  to  ask  it.  However,  he  was 
prepared  to  make  known  the  little  information  he 
had  gathered  from  Bob's  uncle  when  the  men  were 
together  in  the  dugout.  It  was  with  intention  he  had 
waited  all  these  years  for  Bob  to  ask  him  what  he 
knew. 

"The  'everything'  ain't  much ;  I  wish  't  was  more. 
Can  ye  remember  yer  mother  ?  " 

Bob  shook  his  head.  "  No,  I  can't ;  but  I  remember 
her  singing  me  that  song  'bout  the  animals  an'  the 
ark,  an'  I  think  —  I  ain't  sure  though  —  I  can  feel 
her  takin'  me  on  her  lap  to  tell  me  stories.  I 
remember  one  story." 


i66  Out  of  the  Silences 

"Yer  uncle  told  me  she  died  when  ye  was  six  years 
old,  three  years  'fore  we  got  caught  in  the  dugout. 
He  said  yer  father  died  just  a  year  after  ye  was  born, 
an'  that  he  had  taken  up  a  claim  in  Dakota.  He 
had  bad  luck  —  grasshoppers  for  three  years,  an'  a 
prairie  fire  afterwards ;  lost  everything,  an'  died  in 
the  fire.  Yer  mother  crossed  the  plains,  and  went 
to  keepin'  house  for  yer  uncle ;  he  was  foreman  on  a 
sheep  ranch." 

"I  remember  'bout  the  sheep,  an'  helpin'  herd 
'em." 

What  the  boy  did  not  say  was  that,  since  then, 
whenever  he  had  heard  the  flat  trembling  baa-a-a  of  a 
sheep  or  lamb,  there  had  come  over  him  a  great  wave 
of  sickness.  The  sound  recalled  the  herding,  the 
continual  blatting,  monotonous,  weird,  incessant,  of 
the  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  range  sheep.  He  hated 
the  noise  then.  He  loathed  it  now  in  remembrance. 

"That's  all  he  told  me,  an'  that's  all  I  know  'cept  he 
said  you  an'  he  was  the  last  of  the  fam'ly." 

"Then  I  haven't  got  any  folks?" 

"Looks  that  way  —  not  reel  folks;  but  you've  got 
me,  Son,  an'  —  " 

The  saddle-maker  wanted  to  say  something  more ; 
but  he  couldn't.  The  boy  was  dear  to  him,  dearer, 
if  he  would  but  have  acknowledged  it  to  himself, 
than  his  own  little  half-breeds;  dearer  than  Colin 
McGillie.  He  knew  why  :  the  boy  was  white,  of  his 
own  race,  his  ways,  his  ambitions,  his  tastes,  his 
dislikes  —  his  own.  The  first  thought  of  losing  him 
out  of  his  daily  life  was  a  heavy  one ;  the  second  an 
immediate  recognition  that  in  the  circumstances  it 
was  the  only  thing  for  the  boy  to  do. 

Bill  Plunket  longed  at  that  moment,  as  he  had 


The  Path  of  Life  167 

longed  many  a  time  since  his  marriage  to  the  Indian 
woman,  to  be  free  to  go  and  come,  to  slip  the  noose, 
when  and  where  he  might  choose,  of  the  permanent 
relationship  into  which  he  had  entered  through  a 
white  man's  sense  of  honor.  His  next  words,  not 
completing  his  unfinished  sentence,  almost  startled 
the  boy  in  their  intensity.  He  had  never  heard  his 
friend  speak  so  before. 

"I  thank  God  ye're  goin',  Son,  'fore  it's  too  late." 

This  was  the  only  expression  the  saddle-maker 
ever  gave  to  his  unhappiness,  unsuspected  by  any 
one  on  account  of  his  serene  temper,  his  philosophic 
acceptance  of  what  was,  his  kindliness  of  heart  and 
his  strict  integrity  —  unguessed  even  by  the  boy 
beside  him. 

But,  from  that  moment,  Bob  sensed  something  of 
his  friend's  unrevealed  state  of  mind,  and  loved  him 
the  more  for  his  misfortune. 

"Where  ye  goin'?  I  know  ye've  got  some  kind 
o'  notion  which  way  yer  trail  leads. " 

Bob  laughed.  "South,  Plunket,  straight  over  the 
border." 

"Might  'a'  known  it.  I'd  most  forgot  ye're  an 
American,  seein'  I'm  a  loyal  subject  o'  the  Queen. 
That  means  Dakota,  don't  it?" 

"I  shall  hit  Da>ota  aU  right  —  sometime."  Bob 
hated  to  be  pinned  down  to  any  definite  trailing. 
"But  I  don't  know  what  I'm  goin'  to  do  —  an' 
that's  the  bully  part  of  the  fun." 

"Fun!"  The  saddle-maker's  sense  of  humor  was 
keen,  but  he  could  see  no  "fun"  in  the  boy's  sallying 
forth  alone  with  no  chart  or  compass  save  his  boy 'swill. 

"How  ye  goin'  to  live?"  It  was  a  sharp  question, 
sharply  put. 


1 68  Out  of  the  Silences 

"Live?    You  mean  feed?" 

"I  mean  just  that." 

"Why,  earn  it,  or  pick  it  up  as  I  go  along." 

This  answer  embodied  the  supreme  assurance  of 
youth.  The  saddle-maker  bowed  before  the  un- 
wisdom of  it ;  it  was  all-conquering.  He  could  but 
think,  however,  of  the  experience  ahead  for  this 
undisciplined  stripling;  by  means  of  it  life  would 
modify  all  his  expectations. 

Then  Bob  began  to  quote  Scripture,  as  he  always 
did  when  the  spirit  moved  to  torment  Plunket  and 
put  him  in  a  tight  place.  Scripture  was  Bill's  weak 
point. 

"Mebbe,  only  mebbe,  you  know,"  the  imp  went 
on  with  a  lift  of  his  left  eyebrow,  "  I'll  be  fed  like 
Elijah  by  the  ravens  — 

"Mgh." 

" —  Or  like  the  tribes  in  the  wilderness  with  manna, 
Plunket,  sweet  as  honey  dew,  thoop,  yum-yum."  He 
tasted  already  the  sweets  of  adventure. 

"Humph!  Ye  won't  find  much  'manna',  as  ye 
call  it,  on  the  plains.  Ye'll  be  in  luck  if  ye  find  plenty 
o'  dry  bones,  an'  some  buffalo  chips  if  ye  go  far  enough 
west.  Ye  layin'  to  go  soon?" 

"Yep  —  next  week  the  moon  fulls ;  it's  a  good  time 
to  start." 

"Got  any  money  by  ye?" 

"Yes,  I've  got  some  —  'bout  ten  dollars  I  have 
saved  up.  My  boots  cost  me  four,  ye  know.  I  have 
earned  my  pony,  an'  m£.de  my  own  saddle.  I've 
got  these;"  —  he  spread  his  arms  wide,  —  "an' 
these."  He  sparred  in  so  lively  a  way  with  his 
straight  legs,  that  Bill  Plunket  laughed  at  the  show. 
"An'  I've  got  a  little  in  my  pate,  not  as  much  as  I'm 


The  Path  of  Life  169 

goin'  to  have,  but  it'll  do  at  a  pinch.  An',  you  know, 
Plunket,  I  can  live  like  a  bird,  a  squirrel,  or  a  bear  — " 

"Ye're  all  right,  Son." 

"A  nest  in  a  tree,  a  hollow  in  the  trunk,  a  hole  hi  the 
ground.  I've  learned  the  ways  of  foxes,  an'  beavers 
an'  wild  bees.  Oh,  you'll  see,  I  can  get  my  livin'  all 
right!" 

2 

The  saddle-maker  rose.  He  placed  both  hands  on 
the  thin  square  shoulders.  "Ye'll  do  it,  Son,  ye'll  do 
it  —  only  don't  forget  the  old  man.  Let  me  hear 
from  ye  hi  foreign  parts." 

Bob  Collamore  looked  into  the  saddle-maker's  eyes ; 
long  and  true  the  young  dark  eyes  bored  into  the 
faded  blue  ones.  He  spoke  in  a  low  voice : 

"'If  I  forget  thee,  O  my  Jerusalem,  let  my  right 
hand  forget  her  cunning.'  " 

Bill  Plunket  was  satisfied,  but  he  never  knew  that 
Bob  had  interpolated  that  "my." 

CARMASTIC 
i 

Two  days  before  Bob  set  out  to  see  the  world  hi 
his  own  way,  the  saddle-maker  sprang  a  surprise  on 
him. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  shed  door  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening.  Jane,  taking  with  her  the  children  and 
the  horse,  had  gone  to  visit  with  her  sister  for  a  day. 
She  was  given  to  migratory  "spells"  in  which,  accord- 
ing to  Plunket,  she  was  neither  "  to  have  nor  to  hold." 
He  usually  gave  her  free  rein  and  enjoyed  her  absence 
—  for  a  change. 

"Jane  an'  me  has  made  a  trade,  Son.  I'm  goin' 
to  leave  the  mountains." 


170  Out  of  the  Silences 

Bob  looked  at  him  with  a  dozen  questions  in  his 
eyes,  but  he  asked  none.  It  was  not  his  way  when 
other  people's  business  was  concerned. 

The  saddle-maker  nodded.  "Yep;  I'm  goin'  to 
pull  up  stakes  and  trek  over  into  Minnesota." 

"You  mean  leave  the  hut  and  the  mountains  for 
good?" 

"For  good  and  all.  I'm  only  a  squatter  an'  don't 
have  to  pay  no  ground  rent  to  the  Government,  an' 
I  ain't  goin'  to  mix  up  with  no  settlers'  rights  an' 
titles.  I'm  goin'  to  get  out  o'  'ere  'fore  the  Govern- 
ment steps  in;  an'  they're  comin'.  They've  got 
their  eye  on  the  mountain  for  timber  an'  stock  range. 
I  used  to  keep  a  little  myself ;  the  shelter's  good  here 
on  account  o'  the  poplar  and  aspen  bein'  so  thick  — 
an'  there's  good  hay  round  the  sloughs.  The  Govern- 
ment knows  a  good  thing  when  it  sees  it.  Carmastic 
knows  it  all :  the  Injuns'll  have  to  get  out  'fore  long 
—  'move  on',  same's  they  always  have  to,  home  or 
no  home." 

Bob  was  silent.  The  thought  of  such  a  change  in 
the  mountains  was  for  a  moment  overwhelming. 

"Ye  see,  it's  this  way."  Plunket  crossed  his  legs 
and  hugged  his  knees.  "Jane's  got  notions  into  her 
head,  white  notions  too ;  got  'em  while  she  was  away, 
over  in  the  North  Star  State.  An'  she's  been  at  me 
ever  since  we  come  back  to  clear  out  o'  'ere  an'  set 
up  like  white  folks  across  the  Red  River.  She  ain't 
give  me  much  peace  —  an',  Son,  there's  times  when 
a  certain  kind  of  peace  is  worth  buyin',  even  if  it 
ain't  cheap." 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do  over  there?" 

"  I'm  goin'  to  take  up  some  land  I  see  when  you  an' 
me  was  out  there,  forty  acres  at  three  dollars  per. 


The  Path  of  Life  171 

There's  some  good  pine  on  it  an'  plenty  o'  maple  and 
basswood.  I  can  keep  a  little  stock,  an'  I've  got  my 
trade.  Ye  see,  Jane  says  she  wants  the  kids  brought 
up  like  white  men  an'  eddicated.  She  said  that, 
Jane  did."  Bill  rolled  an  eye  appreciative  of  Jane's 
choice  ambitions  on  the  amazed  youth  beside  him. 
Bob  actually  forgot  to  pull  at  his  pipe  in  his  astonish- 
ment at  Jane's  audacity. 

"An'  so  we  traded.  I  said  she  could  have  a  house 
like  a  white  woman,  if  she'd  keep  it  like  a  white  woman 
an'  not  like  a  squaw.  She  said  she'd  try  —  think  o' 
that !  —  an'  what  more'n  that  can  any  of  us-all  do?" 

Bob's-  experience  in  life  provided  no  ground  for 
discussion  of  this  point.  He  kept  silence. 

"Ye  can't  blame  her  now,  can  ye,  Son,  for  wantin' 
her  boys  to  have  a  chance  'long  with  the  whites?" 
He  spoke  wistfully  as  if  craving  approval. 

Bob  ran  his  fingers  through  his  mat  of  fair  hair, 
tanned  and  weathered  now  into  a  fine  calico  brown 
and  yellow.  He  failed  to  grasp  the  fact  that  Tom 
and  Jerry  and  the  expected  baby  were  to  be  educated. 

"How's  she  goin'  to  do  it?"  he  demanded 
brusquely. 

"There's  a  school  near  there  an'  they  can  learn 
farmin'.  An'  now  ye're  goin',  I  kinder  thought  it 
would  be  a  good  time  to  break  up  an'  get  out  before 
winter." 

Bob  said  nothing.  The  saddle-maker  left  him  "to 
chew  on  it"  as  he  said  to  himself,  and  went  into  the 
hut. 

For  the  first  time  since  his  decision  the  boy  had  a 
sharp  pang  of  what  might  be  called  homesickness  at 
the  thought  of  the  empty  hut  and  no  friend  to  wel- 
come him  when  he  should  return ;  for  he  meant  to 


172  Out  of  the  Silences    - 

come  back  to  the  mountains,  sometime  in  the  dim 
future,  at  least  to  visit.  What  would  the  mountains 
be  like  without  Plunket?  No  dogs,  no  ponies,  no 
Indians,  not  even  Jane  and  the  boys?  He  failed  to 
conceive  of  such  a  vacant  spot  in  his  young  life.  And 
Colin  McGillie?  Was  he  never  to  see  his  blood- 
brother  again? 

His  pipe  was  cold.  He  went  into  the  horse  shed, 
threw  the  blanket  over  his  pony,  led  him  out,  started 
him  on  the  run  and,  running  beside  him,  flung  him- 
self on,  calling  back  to  Plunket  who  appeared  at  the 
door  of  the  hut  in  time  to  shout  after  him :  "  Where 
ye  goin'?"  — 

"Goin'  to  see  the  Injuns.  I  shan't  be  back  to- 
night." He  dashed  into  the  north  trail. 

"That  shot  o'  mine  hit  the  bull's-eye,"  said  the 
saddle-maker  with  complacency ;  "knows  now  how  it 
feels  to  be  left  all  of  a  sudden  like  he's  leavin'  me. 
It'll  learn  him  a  lesson.  He  was  full  up;  he  can't 
fool  me." 

2 

The  pony's  pace  seemed  to  set  the  boy's  blood 
aboil.  He  felt  fevered,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  flee 
from  something  of  which  he  was  afraid.  Had  he  but 
known  it,  this  was  the  turmoil  of  his  emotions  long 
suppressed,  the  heartsickness  at  leaving  familiar 
things.  In  the  cooling  air  and  the  mellowing  light 
of  the  northern  twilight  he  sped  past  the  familiar 
stumps,  the  lightning-scarred  poplars,  the  ghostly 
white  of  the  birches.  He  knew  them  all  intimately 
now,  and  their  harmlessness. 

He  passed  the  Indian  who  carried  his  head  under 
his  blanket,  the  shaking  squaw,  the  hooded  priest, 
the  ghosts  of  the  warriors  —  all  old  friends,  these 


The  Path  of  Life  173 

distorted  tree-shapes  of  the  forest  before  which  he  had 
trembled  like  a  leaf  five  years  ago.  There  was  no 
more  raising  of  gooseflesh  now,  no  more  heart-jolts. 

Deep  in  the  woods  an  owl  was  crying  too-whit,  too- 
whoo.  The  pony  shied  at  a  skunk  loping  across  the 
trail.  A  coyote  barked  in  the  distance.  It  was  all  so 
dear  to  him,  all  the  sights  and  forest  sounds  now  that 
he  was  to  leave  them.  He  wanted  desperately  to 
cry.  The  bitch's  son,  Bully,  that  he  had  brought  up 
through  orphanhood,  was  following  hard  behind  him. 
He  whistled ;  the  dog  leaped  beside  him.  The  moon 
rose  and  shone  brightly  into  the  openings  of  the 
woods.  Its  light  touched  trunk  and  branch  and  leaf 
to  a  new  beauty,  for  their  summer  freshness  was 
fading. 

He  came  out  on  the  clearing,  glorified  now  in  the 
flood  of  white  radiance.  A  path  of  fairy  silver 
stretched  away  across  the  lake  waters  to  a  dim  region 
of  solid  darkness.  He  knew  it  for  the  bluffs ;  above 
them  rode  the  full  moon. 

Into  the  woods  again,  but  more  slowly,  for  the  trail 
turned  and  twisted  and  the  light  was  dim.  Out 
again,  and  down  into  the  little  valley  where  his 
shadow,  sharply  defined,  kept  abreast  of  him.  Up 
the  hill  at  a  walk,  and  over  the  top  to  the  high  plateau 
and  the  big  maples  beneath  which  a  dull  glow,  as  of 
embers  seen  through  smoke,  indicated  the  medicine- 
man's roomy  wigwam. 

The  boy  drew  in  his  pony,  and  listened.  From  some 
tepees  in  the  near  distance  came  the  sound  of  the 
drum  accompanied  by  the  monotonous  rise  and  fall 
of  chanting  voices.  A  hound  bayed  at  the  moon. 

Bob  found  himself  shivering ;  his  heart  was  full  to 
overflowing. 


174  Out  of  the  Silences 

He  flung  himself  off  his  pony,  and,  leaving  him  to 
graze,  with  the  dog  to  keep  him  from  straying,  entered 
the  tepee  with  his  usual  salutation. 

3 

Carmastic  was  alone.  Chum  had  gone  with  his 
father  to  the  lakes,  some  miles  northward,  for  maski- 
nonge.  Old  Flying  Loon  was  gossiping  in  a  tepee 
half  a  mile  distant. 

The  medicine-man  was  always  glad  to  see  the  boy. 
He  offered  him  his  pipe  and  lighted  another  for  him- 
self. Bob,  sitting  on  his  heels,  smoked  in  silence. 
Half  an  hour  passed  in  visiting  in  this  manner ;  then 
he  told  his  old  friend  that  he  was  leaving  the  moun- 
tains after  the  morrow.  He  told  him  of  his  wanting 
to  see  the  world  and  what  it  held  of  interest;  told 
him  of  many  things,  but  never  once  did  he  mention 
that  it  was  as  a  white  man  he  would  see,  and  hear, 
and  learn  white  ways  from  seeing  and  hearing. 

When  he  finished,  the  old  Indian  smoked  in  silence 
— for  another  half -hour.  He  rose  then  and  drew  from 
beneath  a  pile  of  rabbit  skins  an  ancient  arrow  with 
an  old-time  head  of  flint.  His  moccasinned  feet 
shuffled  a  clear  space  on  the  hard  clay  floor  that  was 
packed  with  dirt.  He  sat  down  before  it.  Bob 
wondered  what  next.  As  yet  the  Indian  had  spoken 
no  word. 

He  began  to  draw  with  the  incising  point  of  the 
flint  arrowhead,  making  a  clear-cut  line  in  the  hard 
dirt  above  the  clay.  He  drew  carefully,  as  if  calculat- 
ing every  smallest  angle,  every  tangent,  every  curve 
in  the  curious  design.  Bob  had  never  seen  its  like 
before.  He  watched  the  drawing  grow  beneath  the 
steady  hand  guiding  the  flint.  The  process  fascinated 
him,  .  . 


The  Path  of  Life  175 

When  it  was  finished,  it  looked  like  nothing  the  lad 
had  ever  seen.  It  appeared  to  be  a  combination 
skeleton  of  some  strange,  reptile-beast.  He  dared  not 
question  the  medicine-man;  he  knew  too  well  the 
Indian  way ;  but  he  used  his  eyes  to  good  advantage, 
gazing  so  intently  at  the  design,  noting  every  angle, 
tangent,  curve,  that  the  figure  was  etched  into  his 
memory. 


What  did  it  signify? 

4 

The  old  man  laid  aside  the  arrow,  but  he  did  not 
resume  his  pipe.  Presently  he  spoke. 

"Son  of  the  Silent  Places,  you  and  I  have  talked 
together  not  so  long  ago  of  dreams  and  their  medicine. 
Since  then  you  have  fasted  and  dreamed,  so  you  have 
told  me.  This  is  as  it  should  be.  Now  you  go  forth 
to  see  this  world,  but  not  alone  —  you  have  your 
medicine  with  you ;  it  is  a  part  of  you. 

"I  told  you  when  we  spoke  together  under  the 
sycamore  that,  although  you  could  not  see  it,  taste  it, 
handle  it,  it  was  a  part  of  you.  I  spoke  of  it  then 
as  a  mystery.  It  is  not  given  to  any  man  to  speak 
otherwise  of  it.  The  breath  of  the  spirit  —  that  is  a 
man's  medicine :  your  medicine,  my  medicine,  or  any 
other  man's  medicine.  It  makes  itself  known  and 
felt  under  various  forms.  All  that  I  told  you  then 
sounded  unreal  in  your  young  ears.  You  said  as 
much.  Now  I  show  you  what  you  call  a  reality." 


176  Out  of  the  Silences 

He  took  up  the  arrow  and  began  to  trace  the 
design,  beginning  at  the  left. 

"This,  my  son,  is  the  Path  of  Life,  the  path  that 
every  man  born  into  this  world  must  tread  whether 
he  will  or  does  not  will.  He  wills  not  to  enter  upon 
it ;  he  wills  not  to  leave  it.  He  must  both  enter  and 
leave  it  without  his  will.  Here,"  —  he  pointed  to 
the  small  circle  at  the  left, — '"he  has  his  earth- 
beginning  in  his  mother's  womb.  Here,"  —  pointing 
to  the  circle  at  the  right,  —  "he  enters  the  great 
womb  of  the  Earth-mother.  Between  these  two 
wombs  lies  for  all  men  the  Path  of  Life. 

"Look  you  —  it  is  not  straight.  It  rises,  falls, 
curves,  but  it  leads  always  from  your  human  mother 
to  your  Earth-mother. 

"It  has  its  deflections  —  you  see  them  —  in  every 
age;  now  here,  now  there.  Here  it  is  in  youth. 
Here  in  the  full  power  of  manhood  where  the  curve 
of  the  path  reaches  its  highest.  Here  again  in  middle 
age.  And  once  more  in  old  age  —  a  hard  effort ; 
you  may  see  it  here  where  the  life-line  runs  low, 
curving  down  to  the  Earth-mother's  womb. 

"These  lines  of  deflection  are  a  man's  trials  of 
endurance:  endurance  of  life's  hardships — the  freezing 
cold,  the  hunger  that  starves,  the  scorching  heat  that 
parches  with  thirst ;  endurance  of  the  ills  of  life  — 
sickness,  crippled  limbs,  the  scolding  squaw  who  lets 
no  man  live  in  peace ;  endurance  of  the  temptations  of 
life  —  the  wiles  of  women,  the  lure  of  fire-water,  the 
greedy  hand  that  clutches  at  dishonest  gain.  My 
son,  you  must  tread  this  path  of  life.  You  must 
endure.  I  say  to  you  twice,  endure." 

He  laid  down  the  arrow. 

"Son  of  the  Silent  Places,  I  have  shown  you  a 


The  Path  of  Life  177 

reality.  Experience  of  life  will  prove  to  you  that  I 
have  spoken  truth." 

He  rose.  The  moccasinned  feet  shuffled  back  and 
forth  again  over  the  hard  clay  floor  caked  with  dirt. 
Their  slow  even  motion  erased  all  trace  of  the  Path 
of  Life. 

"  So  it  is  with  our  Path  of  Life.  We  leave  no  trace 
on  the  trail.  It  is  only  our  medicine  that  lives  on." 

He  lighted  his  pipe  and  smoked  tranquilly,  watching 
the  youth's  face. 

For  something  had  laid  powerful  hold  on  the  spirit 
of  that  youth.  To  have  saved  his  life  Bob  could 
not  have  said  what  it  was.  Like  a  spell  the  old  man's 
words  had  first  bound  his  spirit,  then  unloosed  it. 
Dimly,  while  the  medicine-man  was  speaking,  he 
began  to  grasp  something  of  the  meaning  of  his  own 
"  medicine  "  that  was  an  undying  part  of  him,  from 
which  he  could  never  separate  himself.  He  felt 
suddenly  comforted.  He  had  his  "medicine";  he 
was  not  going  forth  from  the  mountains  alone. 

He  looked  up  into  the  old  Indian's  face  and  smiled. 
And  upon  the  youth's  face  the  medicine-man  saw,  as 
once  before  the  saddle-maker  had  seen,  a  radiant 
mystical  light  that  half  veiled  the  smile. 

It  was  the  Indian's  turn  to  gaze  hi  wonderment, 
fascinated  by  that  light.  .  .  . 

5 

He  was  the  first  to  break  silence. 

"It  may  be,  as  you  fare  forth  into  the  world,  you 
will  camp  on  the  trail  of  many  of  those  I  know  —  Cree, 
Chippewa,  Assiniboine,  Blackfoot,  Stony  Sioux. 
Greet  them  for  me.  Say  to  them  I  have  smoked  the 
peace  pipe  with  them  hi  spirit.  Many  of  my  brothers 
are  on  reservations,  not  free  to  come  and  go  when 


178  Out  of  the  Silences 

they  will.  Say  to  them  from  me,  that  if  ever  the 
time  should  come  when  men  shall  take  the  warpath 
once  again  to  free  their  brothers  or  themselves, 
whether  red,  or  black,  or  white,  there  will  our  children's 
children  be  found  fighting  side  by  side.  I  have  said." 

"It  shall  be  as  you  say,  Medicine-man."  Bob  rose 
and  stood  with  bowed  head  before  him.  "I  will 
take  your  greetings  to  all  whom  I  may  see  on  the 
world-trails."  He  offered  his  hand.  Carmastic 
grasped  it  closely. 

"It  is  the  white  man's  custom ;  in  time  it  may  be 
ours." 

Bob  turned  abruptly  and  left  the  tepee.  The  old 
Indian  followed  him  to  the  doorway  and  stood  looking 
after  him  as  he  rode  slowly  across  the  plateau. 

The  drum  in  a  neighboring  wigwam,  perhaps  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  was  throbbing  steadily  now 
with  short  strokes,  so  quick,  so  hard  that  the  sound- 
waves struck  the  ear  as  quivering  smoke-waves  strike 
the  eye.  It  was  the  war  beat.  The  Indian's  whole 
being  responded.  Suddenly  on  the  night  air  there 
rang  forth  from  the  medicine-man's  tepee  the  wild, 
exultant  scalp-song  of  victory.  The  old  man  was 
renewing  his  strength  by  means  of  this  resonant  ex- 
pression ;  reliving  his  turbulent  youth,  his  conquests 
over  the  Sioux. 

On  the  brow  of  the  hill  Robert  Collamore  stopped 
to  listen.  The  old  Indian  no  longer  saw  him.  He 
was  forgotten  —  he  and  his  white  race. 


PART  TWO 


REVISITED 


"WHAT  air!" 

The  woman,  —  for  she  was  that  although  with  all 
the  characteristics  of  late  girlhood :  the  figure  slight, 
but  graceful  and  rounded,  straight  as  an  arrow, 
color  fresh,  skin  fair,  —  stepped  from  the  train  to 
the  platform  of  the  station  at  Bemidji  in  northern 
Minnesota.  She  drew  a  deep  full  breath. 

"Air  or  no  air,  Alison,  it's  a  wild  goose  chase  you're 
on,  and  you  will  rind  I  am  right.  Do  change  your 
mind  this  very  minute  before  the  train  starts  and  go 
on  with  us,  do."  There  was  a  note  of  vexation  hi 
Evelyn  Carrolly's  voice  as  she  stood  on  the  lower 
step  of  the  car,  her  hand  on  the  guard  rail. 

"Better  heed  Evelyn  this  time,  Alie;  she's  apt  to 
be  right  nine  times  out  of  ten.  If  there  were  any 
money  in  it,  I  would  say  'try  it',  but  you  know  well 
enough  that  account  is  a  closed  one.  Come  on  with 
us." 

The  signal  for  starting  was  given.  The  man 
swung  himself  on,  his  wife  removing  to  an  upper 
step. 

"Not  this  time,  Phil;  but  let  me  know  when  you 
decide  to  go  north  and  I  will  join  you.  Count  on 
me." 

183 


184  Out  of  the  Silences 

"See  that  you  do  it,"  he  shouted  back  to  her,  for 
the  express  was  already  moving  rapidly.  His  wife, 
leaning  over  his  shoulder,  tossed  her  a  hand-kiss ; 
her  husband  waved  his  cap. 

"I  hate  to  have  her  leave  us,"  she  said. 

They  entered  the  car  and,  again  seated,  Mrs. 
Carrolly  broke  forth  in  a  new  spot. 

"What  do  you  suppose  she  is  really  up  to?  You 
needn't  tell  me,  Phil,  it  is  that  land  she  is  going  to 
look  up ;  there  is  something  more  to  it,  and  in  time 
you  will  see  that  I  am  right." 

"As  usual,  my  dear." 

Philip  Carrolly  smiled.  This  wife  of  his  was  ac- 
customed to  vent  her  dissatisfaction  with  others,  when 
they  acted  contrary  to  her  desires,  by  assuming  that 
her  husband,  simply  because  he  was  her  husband, 
must  inwardly  controvert  her  statements.  She  paid 
no  heed  to  his  cordial  assent ;  she  was  used  to  Phil. 

"You  needn't  tell  me  there  isn't  a  man  in  the  case ; 
I  know  better.  You  know  perfectly  well,  Phil,  how 
I  have  tried  for  years  and  years  to  make  a  match  for 
her ;  but  I  don't  believe  wild  horses  could  drag  her 
into  one.  She  has  said  as  much.  She  is  queer ;  for  one 
thing  she  has  never  known  how  to  accept  the  admira- 
tion and  adoration  of  men.  I'd  like  to  shake  her." 

"Well,  that  could  never  be  said  of  you,  Evelyn." 
Her  husband  took  solid  satisfaction  in  paying  back- 
handed compliments  to  his  wife,  for  Evelyn  Carrolly 
never  knew  there  was  an  edge  to  any  of  them ;  and 
he  loved  to  see  her  beam  on  him. 

She  laughed ;  drew  out  a  stocking  from  a  capacious 
bag,  and  began  to  work.  Her  husband  knew  that 
the  knitting  would  soon  restore  her  equanimity,  and 
left  her  for  the  smoking  car. 


Revisited  185 


So  this  was  Bemidji? 

"Not  the  Bemidji  I  used  to  know,"  Alison  Doane 
said  to  herself,  as  after  leaving  the  station  she  walked 
down  one  of  the  business  streets  of  the  town,  having 
been  told  that  it  led  to  the  docks  and  boathouses. 
It  was  more  than  two  decades  since  she  had  seen 
it,  and  Progress  had  marked  the  place  for  its  own. 
In  a  few  minutes  she  stood  on  the  dock,  looking 
out  over  the  water.  She  would  not  have  recognized 
the  locality  had  she  not  been  told  it  was  Lake  Bemidji. 

Some  men  were  loafing  about  the  boats  in  the  warm 
sun  of  late  September.  She  interviewed  several  of 
them. 

Could  they  tell  her  anything  of  Antoine  Guilmette, 
a  half-breed  guide  of  twenty  years  ago  ? 

Yes,  one  of  them  had  heard  of  him ;  he  was  dead 
these  three  years. 

"And  Long  John,  a  Chippewa,  another  guide?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  Long  John  was  in  Bemidji  not  a  month 
ago  on  his  way  north;  his  daughter,  Jane  Plunket, 
was  with  him.  Do  you  know  her?" 

"No,  only  Long  John.     Is  he  still  guide?" 

"If  he  can  get  a  job.  Injuns  don't  have  much 
show  with  us  nowadays.  Can't  I  fill  the  bill?" 

He  was  a  young  fellow,  about  twenty,  lean,  tanned, 
muscular,  and  the  engaging  smile  with  which  the 
question  was  put  displayed  strong  white  teeth.  Alison 
Doane,  liking  youth  and  being  young  in  heart  herself, 
then  and  there  engaged  him  to  take  her,  if  possible 
by  water,  to  a  certain  tract  of  land,  —  she  gave  him 
the  details :  section,  range,  township,  —  distant  some 
forty  miles  from  Bemidji. 

"I  know  it;  I  was  through  there  last  spring." 


1 86  Out  of  the  Silences 

"And  does  Long  John  live  anywhere  near  there 
now?  He  used  to." 

"'Bout  five  miles  north." 

"And  are  there  good  places  that  you  can  recommend 
where  I  can  stop  at  night?" 

"Lord,  yes;  you  can't  go  five  miles  'round  here 
without  finding  places  you  can  put  up  at." 

"I  want  to  start  to-morrow,  if  pleasant." 

The  young  man  showed  a  certain  degree  of  hesitancy 
about  agreeing  to  this. 

"Well,  Ma'am,  the  railroad  has  been  run  near  a 
corner  of  that  section  now,  an'  I  ain't  going  to  close 
this  deal  without  telling  you  so.  You  can  take  a 
train  to  within  five  miles  of  there,  and  a  good  team  '11 
carry  you  the  rest  of  the  way.  You'll  see  all  you 
want  to,  an'  it  will  cost  you  less." 

Alison  Doane  smiled.  The  youth's  evident  desire 
to  do  the  right  thing  prepossessed  her  the  more  in 
his  favor. 

"I  don't  want  to  see  a  railroad  or  hear  one,  if  I 
can  help  it,  for  the  next  month;  so  you  must  get 
me  there  as  best  you  can  without." 

"All  right,  Ma'am,  here's  my  shingle."  He  handed 
her  a  card  with  his  name,  and  license  number.  She 
directed  him  to  call  for  her  few  belongings  at  a  certain 
hotel  she  had  noted  on  her  way  to  the  dock,  and  tell- 
ing him  she  would  be  at  the  boathouse  promptly  at 
eight  she  went  back  to  the  station. 

3 

From  its  fixed  seat  in  the  heavens  the  North  Star 
looked  down  upon  a  giant  river  of  the  western  world. 
Its  right  arm  lay  outstretched  along  the  plains.  Its 
forearm  smote  and  cleft  the  Great  Plateau.  Its 
ringers  clutched  the  bare  ribs  of  the  Great  Divide. 


Revisited  187 

Its  left  arm  reached  into  the  North,  and  within 
the  vast  curve  of  its  elbow  it  held  more  than  a  thousand 
lakes.  Its  fingers  sought  the  myriad  rootlets  of  the 
Big  Woods  and  nourished  them  for  the  salvation  of 
generations. 

4 

For  two  hundred,  three  hundred,  yes,  four  hundred 
years,  the  elements  of  earth,  air,  water,  and  sunshine 
were  undergoing  in  Mother  Nature's  vast  alembic 
various  chemical  changes  to  produce  the  Big  Woods 
of  the  North  Star  State. 

How  slowly,  how  patiently  she  wrought  —  that 
Great  Mother!  With  what  age-long  thrift  she 
deepened  and  enriched  the  soil  for  seedling  pine  and 
oak,  for  birch  and  balsam,  spruce  and  ash.  Nothing 
was  too  small  for  her  to  utilize:  a  drop  of  freezing 
water,  a  tiny  lichen,  earthworm,  fallen  leaf,  bone  of 
bird,  of  beast,  of  man  —  nothing  so  insignificant  she 
might  disregard  its  instrumentality. 

With  what  cunning  she  stored  her  still  waters  in 
swamp  and  shallow,  pond  and  lake.  With  what 
artisanship  she  grooved  the  channels  for  her  running 
waters  —  thread  and  trickle  and  streamlet,  rill, 
rivulet,  and  river. 

How  her  centuries  of  sunshine  drew  the  stem  of 
the  seedling-pine  ever  upward,  the  while  its  roots 
bored  ever  deeper,  seeking  the  provident  under- 
surface  water ! 

The  Great  Mother  patiently  bided  her  time. 
Thirty  years ;  the  seedling's  stem  is  six  inches  through. 

Fifty  years ;  the  young  tree  measures  three  feet  hi 
circumference.  A  man,  loving  it,  may  encircle  it 
with  his  arms. 

One   hundred   years.     The   stately   shaft   reaches 


1 88  Out  of  the  Silences 

eighty  feet  into  the  blue,  and  is  two  feet  in  diameter 
at  the  height  of  a  man's  breast.  It  has  seen  the 
passing  of  three  generations  of  mankind. 

Four  hundred  years.  The  noble  bole  is  six  feet 
through  at  the  butt.  Its  magnificent  crown  tops  the 
northern  forests. 

Four  hundred  years  in  the  making !  How  patiently 
the  Great  Mother  has  bided  her  time.  In  a  day  the 
hand  of  man  lays  low  the  glory  of  her  workmanship. 

5 

Some  such  thoughts  were  Alison  Doane's  when, 
after  two  days  of  canoe  and  portage,  she  stood  on 
what  was  once  land  owned  in  her  father's  name. 
By  right  it  should  have  been  hers  at  this  moment. 

She  looked  about  her,  recalling  the  density  of  the 
woods  in  this  region  twenty  years  ago.  The  land 
was  denuded  of  its  forest  trees :  its  valuable  white 
pine,  its  oak  and  maple,  even  its  basswood.  Some 
rotting  stumpage  was  left ;  cattle  were  grazing  among 
it.  At  no  great  distance  the  strands  of  a  wire  fence 
glistened  in  the  low  sunshine. 

She  crossed  the  shallow  bed  of  a  stream,  gone  dry 
since  the  protecting  forest  had  been  levelled.  Far 
away  across  the  stretch  of  three  hundred  and  twenty 
acres,  some  men  were  at  work  with  a  large  traction 
plough,  breaking  the  good  soil  in  the  autumn  weather. 
A  road  ran  the  length  of  the  southern  boundary,  and 
in  the  distance,  against  a  background  of  trees,  stood 
a  settler's  small  frame  house. 

The  woman,  eye  witness  to  this  march  of  progress, 
experienced  a  sudden  homesickness  for  those  great 
pine  woods  with  which  she  once  made  acquaintance 
in  her  girlhood,  for  the  green  glooms  of  their  trails 
white-flecked  by  sunshine  falling  through  the  branches, 


Revisited  189 

for  the  love  and  protection  of  her  father  during  those 
care-free  days  on  lake  and  portage  with  him  and 
Antoine  and  Long  John.  She  turned  suddenly  to 
her  guide. 

"You  say  Long  John  lives  only  five  miles  from 
here?" 

"Yes,  to  the  north." 

"And  who  lives  there?"  She  pointed  to  the  end 
of  the  newly  made  road. 

"That's  Bill  Plunket's." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"He  married  Long  John's  youngest  girl.  Jane, 
they  call  her,  —  Jane  Plunket." 

"  She  is  the  one  you  said  had  gone  with  her  father  ?  " 

"Yes,  she  goes  off  two  or  three  times  a  year  visiting 
up  Red  Lake  way.  She's  got  a  lot  of  relations  on 
the  reservation  there.  Plunket's  is  a  good  place  to 
put  up  at,  for  one  night  anyway ;  everybody  likes  the 
old  man.  .I'd  planned  to  stop  there." 

"But  his  wife  isn't  at  home,  you  say." 

The  young  fellow  grinned.  "Jane  don't  run  the 
house  much  —  it's  her  girl  does  it.  You  see,  Jane's 
a  squaw,  and  won't  never  be  anything  but  Injun ; 
but  her  girl  is  as  white  as  you,  Ma'am,  and  a  right 
smart  one  I  can  tell  you." 

"What's  her  name?" 

"Stella  —  Stella  Plunket." 

"And  her  father  is  an  old  man?" 

"Yes,  'bout  seventy." 

"And  Stella,  how  old  is  she?" 

"Stella,  let  me  see," — Alison  Doane  noted  how 
his  voice  lingered  slightly  on  the  musical  name  and 
made  a  few  private  thoughts  to  her  own  satisfaction, 
for  like  a  true  woman  she  loved  a  romance  however 


190  Out  of  the  Silences 

humble,  —  "  Stella  must  be  'bout  twenty  now.  She's 
book-learned,  Stella  is."  His  tone  was  one  of  intense 
admiration. 

Alison  Doane  felt  suddenly  less  lonely,  younger ; 
she  forgot  for  the  time  the  pine  forests  in  her  desire 
for  human  companionship. 

"Let's  go  there,  then;  it's  getting  late.  We'll 
take  the  road." 

It  was  rough  walking  and  farther  than  it  looked 
to  be.  The  house  was  not  inviting,  seen  from  with- 
out. The  low  weathered  barn  looked  the  more  com- 
fortable of  the  two.  The  woman,  recalling  that  night 
in  the  bark-covered  hut  among  the  pines,  her  first 
real  adventure,  smiled  at  the  contrast  this  little  frame 
house,  high-shouldered,  unfinished,  dreary  looking,  its 
painted  clapboards  scaling,  its  Windless  windows  un- 
curtained, presented  to  that  other  with  its  alien 
occupants.  She  had  never  forgotten  the  youth's 
music  and  the  girl's  dancing. 

As  she  neared  the  house  she  heard  the  sound  of  a 
phonograph.  Her  guide  directed  her  to  ring  the 
doorbell.  He  said  he  saw  Stella  at  the  barn  and 
would  bring  her  in. 

The  bell  knob,  one  of  those  brown  crockery  affairs 
that  disgrace  any  door,  hung  loosely  from  its  wire. 
To  the  stranger  it  looked  like  an  abortive  attempt  at 
civilization.  The  bell  jangled  harshly  as  she  pulled 
at  it.  The  music  stopped  abruptly.  She  heard  slow 
steps  on  a  bare  floor ;  then  the  door  was  flung  open 
and  Bill  Plunket  stood  before  her,  bent  of  shoulder, 
crippled  with  rheumatism,  white-haired;  but  in  his 
faded  blue  eyes  there  shone  a  welcome  that  was  in 
itself  both  a  balm  and  a  benediction. 

"  Come  right  in.     I  didn't  happen  to  see  ye  comin' 


Revisited  191 

along  the  road,  but  I  see  Alec  goin'  to  the  barn.  I 
s'pose  ye've  come  for  the  night  —  most  strangers  do 
that  Alec  brings  through  these  parts." 

She  answered  half  on  impulse,  half  from  intuition : 

"If  you  can  accommodate  me,  Mr.  Plunket,  I  may 
want  to  stay  more  than  one  night."  She  put  out 
her  hand. 

Bill  Plunket  took  it,  slender,  white,  shapely;  he 
looked  at  it,  then  at  its  owner. 

"Ye  can  stay  just  as  long  as  ye  want  to,  Miss  — " 

"Doane ;  my  name  is  Alison  Doane." 

" — Miss  Doane,  for  I  take  it  ye're  'Miss',  seein' 
ye  ain't  no  weddin'  ring  on  t'other  hand." 

It  was  then  Alison  Doane  laughed  —  a  merry, 
heartening  laugh  that  filled  the  small  bare  hall. 
Hearing  it,  the  saddle-maker,  still  holding  her  hand, 
drew  her  into  the  room  beyond,  saying : 

"  It  does  me  good  to  hear  that  laugh  o'  yourn ;  it's 
like  Son's.  You  set  down,  an'  I'll  call  my  girl." 

He  moved  with  some  difficulty  to  the  back  door  and 
throwing  it  open  was  confronted  by  Stella  and  Alec. 

"Stella,  this  here  is  Miss  Doane.  She's  goin'  to 
put  up  with  us  for  to-night,  mebbe  longer.  Glad 
to  see  ye,  Alec.  Ye'll  have  to  sleep  in  the  barn, 
but  we  can  feed  ye  all  right." 

The  girl  welcomed  her  guest  with  gentle  grace  and 
in  excellent  English.  She  at  once  led  the  way  to  the 
guest  room. 

6 

It  was  an  unfinished  attic,  a  window  in  each  gable 
end.  One  looked  to  the  east  across  the  rough  cleared 
land,  that  should  have  been  Alison  Doane's,  and  still 
farther  over  the  tilled  and  untilled  acres.  Here  and 
there  a  farmhouse  or  two,  with  outbuildings,  could  be 


192  Out  of  the  Silences 

seen  indistinctly  beneath  over-topping  shade  trees. 
The  shadowing  darkness  of  small  patches  of  wood- 
land and,  far  away,  the  lowing  of  cattle,  emphasized 
the  quiet  of  approaching  twilight. 

From  the  west  window,  the  woman,  looking  through 
the  few  pines  at  the  back  of  the  house,  caught  the 
gleam  of  a  lake  and  heard  the  lap  of  its  waters  among 
the  long  grass  or  sedge. 

"I  think  I  shall  want  to  stay  here  a  whole  month, 
if  I  may;  will  you  let  me?"  she  said,  turning  to  the 
girl  and  smiling  almost  joyously,  for  she  was  ex- 
periencing a  sensation  of  deliverance  from  the  tram- 
mels of  her  ordinary  life.  She  was  realizing  the  fact 
that  she  was  at  last  free  to  live  her  own  life  as  she 
might  choose,  where  she  might  choose.  And  just 
now  she  chose  to  live  a  month  of  it  here,  with  these 
two  interesting  human  beings,  Bill  Plunket  and  his 
half-breed  daughter,  in  the  strangely  prosaic  sur- 
roundings of  glebe,  newly  turned  furrow,  and  rough, 
timberless  clearings. 

The  girl  answered  with  a  smile:  "As  long  as  you 
want  to,  but,"  she  added  almost  with  sadness,  "you 
will  get  tired  of  it :  they  all  do  before  that  time." 

Noting  that  smile,  Alison  Doane  thought  it  light- 
ened one  of  the  most  pathetic  faces  she  had  ever  seen. 
It  was  an  irregular  oval,  rather  thin,  the  skin  white 
as  her  own  except  for  a  coat  of  tan.  The  eyes  were 
large,  dreamy,  blue-gray,  with  remarkably  full  under- 
lids ;  the  nose  straight,  the  nostrils  full  and  well- 
formed.  But  the  high  cheek  bones  and  the  lower 
part  of  the  mouth  were  all  Indian.  She  wore  a  coarse 
white  blouse  and  a  blue  denim  skirt.  Beautifully 
formed,  she  was  graceful  as  a  fawn,  with  something 
of  the  swiftness  and  unexpectedness  of  its  movements. 


Revisited  193 

Such  was  Stella,  the  saddle-maker's  half-breed 
daughter  who  was  at  home  for  the  first  time  in  five 
years  during  which  she  had  been  at  a  distant  Gov- 
ernment school.  To  the  white  woman,  admiring 
her,  she  seemed  to  typify  the  tragedy  —  with  the 
passing  of  the  great  forests  of  the  North  Star  State 
—  of  that  red  race  that  once  dominated  this  land  and 
was  the  girl's  by  a  half-inheritance. 

As  Alison  leaned  to  have  another  look  from  the 
east  window,  she  heard  the  almost  noiseless  steps  of 
the  girl  on  the  stairs;  then  the  scent  of  the  freshly 
turned  earth  rose  into  her  nostrils  mingled  with  the 
fragrance  of  the  pines.  The  earth  was  breathing  a 
few  times  before  the  falling  of  the  autumn  dews. 

7 

For  the  first  time  in  his  long  life  Bill  Plunket  was 
brought  into  daily  contact  with  a  woman  of  "gentle- 
people"  breeding;  for  the  first  time  into  daily  inter- 
course with  the  simple  manners  of  what  we  call,  for 
want  of  a  better  name,  a  lady  at  heart.  He  watched 
her  deft  ways  with  his  hugger-mugger  belongings; 
noted  the  order  she  brought  out  of  chaos.  He  ad- 
mired her  thoroughly  practical  outlook  on  the  do- 
mestic side  of  life.  He  loved  to  talk  with  her,  hear 
her  laugh,  and  above  all  to  question  her  as  to  her 
reasons  for  being  in  just  that  locality ;  but  she  baffled 
his  curiosity  for  a  few  days  and  purposely  kept  him 
wondering  aimlessly.  This  in  turn  amused  her. 

The 'October  nights  were  cool  with  heavy  frosts, 
and  the  big  stove  in  the  kitchen  was  in  full  blast 
after  supper.  The  atmosphere  was  conducive  to 
chat  and  good  talk.  One  evening  Bill  Plunket  spoke 
between  puffs : 

"I  see  ye  prospectin'  over  by  Ole  Olafson's  this 


194  Out  of  the  Silences 

afternoon;  find  anything  worth  investin*  in  to-day?" 
This  was  a  daily  question. 

"Not  to-day,  Mr.  Plunket."  She  bent  to  the 
sweater  she  was  knitting.  "I  just  wanted  to  take  a 
look  at  the  farm  over  there." 

"Did  ye  see  Olafson?" 

"No,  there  wasn't  any  one  at  home  so  far  as  I 
could  see.  Who  owns  the  farm,  the  little  one  just 
beyond  his?" 

"That's  his  brother's,  a  bacheldore."  He  chuckled 
to  himself. 

"What  is  it?  Tell  me,  do,"  she  said,  ready  to 
enjoy  one  of  his  local  jokes. 

"His  brother's  name  is  Hendrik.  Ye  see,  there's 
been  a  lot  o'  trouble  for  the  last  ten  years  'bout  this 
piece  o'  land  ye  been  looking  over,  though  it  begun 
a  good  while  'fore  that  with  the  land  sharks." 

Miss  Doane  looked  up  inquiringly.  Plunket  nodded 
emphatically. 

"That's  wot  we  call  'em.  Ye  see,  if  I've  got  the 
rights  o'  it  —  an'  I've  heard  it  told  enough  times  to 
know  —  all  them  three  hundred  and  twenty  acres, 
was  Government  gift  to  two  brothers  in  the  Florida 
war;  an'  a  man  come  along  through  here  a  good 
many  years  ago  an*  bought  up  their  claims.  Then 
another  man  bought  him  out.  Seems  he  died,  an' 
then  the  trouble  begun. 

"The  timber-wolves  don't  let  much  timber  stand 
long  when  there's  nobody  'round  to  look  after  it, 
an'  just  after  I  moved  in  here  from  Turtle  Moun- 
tain, they  begun  to  cut  the  tirnber  —  best  o'  white 
pine,  heavy  and  full  grown.  By  the  time  I'd  been 
in  here  ten  years  they  was  cuttin'  off  the  oak;  an' 
the  maples  was  dying  off,  for  their  roots  couldn't 


Revisited  195 

reach  to  the  under-surface  water  that  had  been 
lowered.  It  was  a  clear  case  o'  wot  they  call  'tres- 
passin'  an'  wot  /  call  stealin'.  They  hadn't  no  right 
to  a  dog-goned  stick  o'  that  timber ;  but  I  didn't  know 
it  then  or  I'd  have  used  my  gun  on  'em.  Stealin' 
from  a  woman  is  a  durned  low-down  trick,  an'  that's 
wot  they  was  doin*. 

"Next,  they  took  all  the  bass  wood.  One  night 
'bout  eight  years  ago,  Ole  come  over  to  read  me  a 
letter  from  a  woman  somewhere  in  Virginia.  He 
wouldn't  tell  me  her  name  for  he  said  he  wasn't 
goin'  into  no  witness  box  on  tax  titles  an'  trespassin'. 
She  said  her  father  owned  the  land;  that  he  was 
dead,  and  she  wanted  to  get  at  the  value  now  that 
the  timber  had  been  cut  off  unbeknownst  to  her. 
She  asked  Ole  if  he'd  kind  o'  look  out  for  her  int'rest 
in  the  half  section  as  she  couldn't  come  out  here 
herself.  He  showed  me  a  five-dollar  bill  she  sent  to 
close  the  bargain." 

He  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh,  so  hearty  that  Alison 
Doane  joined  him  and  Stella's  face  wore  a  smile. 

"Ye  see  Hendrik  was  lookin'  round  for  a  wife  — 
ain't  got  one  yet.  They  wouldn't  look  at  him  with- 
out some  land ;  no  woman  will,  'round  in  these  parts. 
You've  got  to  show  yer  deed  to  'em,  an'  no  tax  title 
will  work  now ;  it's  got  to  be  the  genuine  article 
here  in  the  North  Star  State.  So  when  Ole  read  the 
letter  to  his  brother,  Hendrik  begun  to  take  notice ; 
an'  he  an'  Ole  between  'em  laid  their  plans  to  get 
hold  of  the  land  by  marriage  contract  between  Hen- 
drik an'  the  woman.  He  said  he  didn't  care  whether 
she  was  young  or  old,  so  long's  she  owned  that  land. 
So  Ole  wrote  to  her  an'  told  her  just  how  matters 
stood :  that  all  the  timber  had  been  cut  off,  but  that 


196  Out  of  the  Silences 

it  was  mighty  good  farm  land  an'  worth  forty  dollars 
an  acre,  for  the  railroad  had  been  run  so  close  to  it 
there  was  no  haulin'  to  speak  of."  He  chuckled 
again. 

"He  told  her  he  had  a  brother  who  was  a  bacheldore 
an'  lookin'  for  some  good  land  to  kind  o'  develop  an' 
a  wife  into  the  bargain ;  an'  if  she  felt  any  incfe'nation, 
she  might  write  to  him  what  her  mind  was  on  that 
pertic'ler  point,  an'  he'd  meet  her  more'n  half  way." 

Alison  began  to  laugh. 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"Well,  I  never  rightly  knowed.  Ole  wasn't  wot 
ye  might  call  extra  tongue-loose  on  that  point ;  but 
I  guess  she  settled  the  matter  for  good  an'  all.  Any- 
way, she  didn't  lay  up  nothin'  against  Ole ;  he  heard 
from  her  till  'bout  three  years  ago,  p'raps  more,  then 
the  real  rumpus  begun. 

"Ye  see,  the  woman  couldn't  fight  a  monop'ly, 
an'  that's  wot  she  was  up  against,  an'  two  thousand 
miles  away.  There  was  a  reg'lar  school  o'  land 
sharks  to  begin  with.  Then  there  was  the  folks  that 
had  done  the  stealin'  —  some  o'  'em  dead,  an'  their 
children  not  to  blame  for  the  sins  o'  their  fathers. 
Then  there  was  the  monop'ly ;  that  meant  some  o' 
the  biggest  an'  richest  men  in  the  country ;  an' 
there  was  the  lawyers  who  was  workin'  for  the 
monop'ly. 

"Now  I  want  to  know  wot  chance  a  woman's  got 
to  fight  that  combination?  Tell  me  that.  Ye  can 
trap  some  animiles,  an'  shoot  others,  an'  decoy  some, 
an'  corral  the  rest.  But  no  man  that  handles  a  trap, 
or  a  gun,  or  a  lariat,  is  goin'  to  use  all  three  to  once 
on  a  creature  that  can't  put  up.  a  fight,  not  much ! 
But  Chat's,  accordin'  to  my  notion,  just  wot  they've 


Revisited  197 

done  to  that  woman.  That  monop'ly  got  a  grip  on 
that  half-section,  an*  no  power  on  earth  can  make 
'em  let  go.  From  all  I  hear  they  threatened  her 
with  law  suits,  an'  badgered  her  with  letters,  an* 
baited  her  with  quit-claim  deeds,  an'  raised  the 
deuce  gen'rally. 

"  There  wasn't  no  show  for  her.  They  say  they 
own  it  now ;  an'  have  put  up  a  wire  fence  'round  it 
an'  been  keepin'  stock  in  there  this  last  season. 
I'd  give  one  o'  Stella's  cookies  if  I  could  find  out 
what  she  got  for  it.  I  know  she  was  cheated." 

"I  can  tell  you,"  Alison  Doane  spoke  quietly. 
Plunket  looked  over  at  her  inquiringly  without  show- 
ing surprise. 

"How  do  you  know?"  was  his  rather  abrupt 
question. 

"Because  I  am  the  woman.  And  you  are  right  — 
I  could  not  fight  such  a  combination ;  but  the  land 
was  mine.  I  got  eight  hundred  dollars  for  it;  and 
I'm  taking  this  my  first  trip  into  the  heart  of  my 
country,  on  the  strength  of  that  money." 

"By  gum!"  was  all  Plunket  said  for  a  moment; 
evidently  he  was  calculating;  "an'  ye'd  ought  to 
had  most  thirteen  thousand  dollars  without  countin' 
the  trespass.  So  ye're  the  woman  —  I  might  have 
known  it.  Ye  wouldn't  stayed  'round  here  for 
more'n  a  day  if  ye  hadn't  had  some  sort  o'  int'rest 
in  the  place." 

"You're  on  the  wrong  trail,  Mr.  Plunket.  I  stay 
here  because  I  like  to  stay  with  you  and  Stella  for  a 
few  weeks." 

"I'd  like  to  ask  ye  just  one  question  an'  no  offense 
meant :  did  not  havin'  wot  was  yer  dues  from  yer 
father  make  any  kind  o'  difference  in  yer  livin'  ?  " 


198  Out  of  the  Silences 

"All  the  difference  between  a  life  of  leisure  and  a 
life  of  work.  I've  earned  my  livelihood  ever  since 
my  father  died." 

"An'  those  rats  did  that,  did  they?"  Plunket's 
wrath  was  rising.  "Ye  mean  ye've  worked  for  yer 
livin',  for  yer  daily  bread  same's  other  folks?" 

"Just  the  same,"  Alison  Doane  answered  with  a 
smile.  "I'm  no  better  than  others  when  it  comes 
to  that,  and  work  doesn't  hurt  any  woman  provided 
she  isn't  overworked." 

"Ye  must  have  been  under  age  when  yer  father 
died?" 

"Yes,  but  I  was  over  seventeen." 

"And  now  I  judge  ye're  'bout  twenty-seven — " 
Miss  Doane  interrupted  him  with  the  merry  laugh 
that  to  hear  Bill  Plunket  declared  did  his  "rheu- 
matics "  good. 

"Your  arithmetic  is  all  wrong,  Mr.  Plunket.  Guess 
again." 

"Ye  can't  be  the  shady  side  o'  thirty?"  Bill 
Plunket  began  to  look  troubled. 

"I  am  thirty-seven." 

"Don't  tell  it,  Miss;  nobody'd  believe  ye."  Bill 
Plunket  spoke  so  earnestly  that  his  guest  laughed 
again. 

"I'm  mad  enough  to  use  my  gun  on  the  whole  kit, 
mad  as  Son  was  when  the  Injun  cheated  him  on  his 
pony;  mad  enough  to  kill  somebody,  just  like  him. 
If  there  was  anything  used  to  get  Son  wild  it  was  for 
somebody  to  try  to  do  him.  An'  you,  poor  girl, 
have  been  done  by  the  toughest  crowd  that  ever 
tackled  a  man ;  an'  yet  ye  can  laugh  —  laugh  just  like 
Son." 

"That's  what  you  said  when  I  entered  the  house, 


Revisited  199 

Mr.  Plunket.  How  many  sons  have  you?  Stella 
speaks  of  Tom  and  Jerry,  and  you  of  McGillie  and 
Son.  Straighten  it  out  for  me,  please." 

Plunket,  who  in  his  earnestness  had  hitched  himself 
out  of  his  chair,  sat  down  again  with  a  laugh. 

"I  don't  blame  ye  for  wan  tin'  to  know  how  we 
stand.  Ye  see,  Tom  an'  Jerry  are  my  sons,  'reel 
Plunkets'  as  Son  calls  'em.  Tom  is  section  hand 
on  the  railroad.  Jerry's  off  fishin'  up  Red  Lake 
way.  McGillie  is  my  stepson ;  I  was  married  to  a 
widow  'fore  I  married  Jane.  And  Son  —  well,  now 
wot  shall  I  say?  He's  just  Son.  He  ain't  no  blood 
relation,  but  he's  nearer  to  me  than  a  good  many  o' 
that  kind  would  be  if  I  had  'em.  His  name  is  Robert 
Collamore,  an'  he  was  here  'bout  two  weeks  ago  on 
his  way  north.  He's  been  here  off  an'  on  for  more'n 
twenty  years.  We  both  left  the  Turtle  Mountains 
for  good  and  all  'bout  that  time.  He's  been  here 
three  or  four  times  an'  he  can't  come  too  often  an* 
he  can't  stay  too  long.  He  had  a  tough  life,  Bob 
did,  up  to  six  years  ago ;  but  he's  coming  out  on  top 
—  thai  is  if  he  don't  get  into  this  war  business ;  he's 
made  for  it.  He's  on  his  way  now  to  see  the  Injuns ; 
he  an'  them  was  great  friends.  He  lived  with  me 
five  years  in  the  Turtle  Mountains." 

"Now  where  are  those?  I  am  densely  ignorant  of 
my  own  country  in  spots.  Tell  me  about  it, "  —  she 
put  the  sweater  into  her  bag,  —  "and  little  Bob 
Collamore ;  he  sounds  interesting." 

This  opportunity  of  sounding  the  praises  of  his 
well-beloved  "  Son  ",  Plunket  seized,  so  to  speak,  by 
the  hair  of  its  head.  For  three  mortal  hours  he  worked 
that  opportunity  for  all  it  was  worth. 

Alison  Doane  listened  in  silence,  only  now  and  then 


2OO  Out  of  the  Silences 

asking  a  question.  Stella  also  listened,  intent,  ab- 
sorbed. At  the  end  of  that  time,  when  the  kitchen 
clock  struck  eleven,  Alison  Doane  felt  she  knew 
something  worth  knowing  about  Robert  Collamore, 
the  saddle-maker's  "Son." 

"He's  made  something  of  himself,  I  can  tell  ye 
—  great  feller  for  books ;  an'  he's  been  to  a  big 
school  for  trainin'  timber  experts  —  worked  his  way 
through  and  is  comin'  out  on  top ;  an'  is  in  a  fair  way 
o'  makin'  his  pile  —  and  he  sure  needs  all  the  luck 
comin'  to  him,"  he  added  as  he  bade  his  guest  good- 
night. 

8 

Little  by  little,  during  her  stay  of  a  month  in 
Minnesota,  Alison  Doane  lived  into  the  spirit  of 
her  new  environment ;  and  that  spirit  was  the  benign 
atmosphere  of  the  saddle-maker's  severely  disciplined 
soul.  Her  interest  in  Stella  and  her  anomalous  posi- 
tion as  a  half-breed  increased  daily.  She  saw,  at 
times,  strong  evidence  of  her  red  racial  inheritance; 
at  others,  certain  tendencies  and  an  outlook  on  life 
that  were  her  father's. 

They  discussed  Stella  one  day  as  they  were  driving 
over  the  rough  road  that  led  to  the  station  five  miles 
distant.  They  were  seated  on  the  board  seat  of  a 
low  farm  wagon,  the  body  of  which  had  been  con- 
verted into  a  transient  travelling  stall  for  stock  — 
some  sheep  and  a  hog  Plunket  was  shipping  to  market. 

"  I  ain't  like  Jane.  She's  all  for  eddication.  Now, 
ye  see,  I  never  did  think  books  could  give  ye  eddica- 
tion. They  can  give  ye  learnin'  o'  course ;  but  I've 
knocked  'round  enough  to  see  that  learnin'  ain't 
eddication,  an'  never  will  be." 

He  was  so  emphatic  that  he  slapped  the  reins 


Revisited  201 

vigorously  on  the  colt's  back,  which  procedure  the 
animal  resented,  with  the  result  that  there  were 
cavortings  and  side-trackings  which  made  things 
lively  for  man,  woman,  and  beasts  on  the  rough 
roadway.  Plunket's  objurgations  in  homespun  ver- 
nacular were  continued,  forcible,  and  expressive. 
Alison  Doane  laughed  till  the  tears  stood  in  her 
eyes,  for  the  hog  and  terrified  sheep  resented  the 
performance  quite  as  much  as  Plunket  on  his  side 
and  the  colt  on  his,  and  in  their  own  peculiar  fashion. 
The  medley  of  snortings,  squealings,  and  blattings 
was  irresistibly  funny. 

When  things  had  quieted  down  both  within  and 
without  the  cart  to  a  degree  that  the  two  could 
continue  the  conversation  without  running  the  risk 
of  biting  their  tongues,  owing  to  the  high  jolting  of 
the  springless  cart  over  the  little-used  road  —  rem- 
nant of  an  old  logging  road  —  the  saddle-maker, 
smiling  genially,  turned  to  his  guest  and  explained 
in  gentle  tones : 

"This  damned  beast  needs  eddicatin'  —  animiles 
do,  ye  know ;  an'  humans  bein'  animiles,  an'  somp'in* 
else,  need  it  a  little  more'n  they  do ;  an'  neither  one 
nor  t'other  gets  it  from  books,  now  do  they?" 

"Indeed,  we  don't,  Mr.  Plunket ;  we  get  it  through 
what  you're  flourishing  a  little  too  near  the  colt's 
left  ear  for  my  comfort,"  she  replied,  referring  to 
the  whiplash  Plunket  was  plying  in  fancy  aerial 
curves  just  over  the  head  of  the  sensitive  young 
horse. 

Plunket  laughed  aloud.  "Ye  mean  get  whipped 
into  shape  by  wot  ye  call  experience,  eh?" 

"Yes,  I've  found  it  so." 

Bill  Plunket  grew  serious  at  once.     "Well,  I  s'pose, 


202  Out  of  the  Silences 

bein'  human,  ye've  had  to  take  yer  medicine  same  as 
the  rest  o'  us ;  but  I'll  be  blistered  if  I  see  any  reason 
why  a  woman  should  have  it  thrust  down  her  throat 
by  them  damned  land  sharks.  I  ain't  got  over  it 
yet,  ye  see,"  he  added  in  apology  for  the  forcibleness 
of  his  condemnation,  delivered  this  time  in  no  gentle 
tone. 

"Oh,  that  isn't  the  way  to  look  at  it." 

"Isn't,  eh?" 

"No,  for  if  it  hadn't  been  for  those"  —  she  turned 
to  him  with  a  charming  smile  curving  her  still  red 
lips,  and  a  glint  of  daring  mischief  in  her  dark  blue 
eyes  —  " 'damned  land  sharks'  of  your  North  Star 
State,  I  shouldn't  be  having  the  second  'time'  of  my 
life  right  here  with  you  and  Stella.  Honestly,  I 
mean  it." 

Bill  Plunket  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 

"Ye  mean  that?"  He  spoke  abruptly;  he  had 
thought  hitherto  that  people  of  gentle  blood  were 
accustomed  to  good  times  during  the  greater  part  of 
their  lives. 

"Of  course  I  do;  and  the  queer  part  of  it  is  that 
I  had  my  first  glorious  'time'  within  twenty  miles  of 
here." 

"Ye  mean  ye've  been  here  before?" 

"Yes,  years  ago  —  before  you  settled  here." 

"How's  that?" 

"I  came  out  here  with  my  father,  —  he  was  looking 
for  investments,  —  and  I  slept  in  a  hut  in  the  really 
*big  woods'  for  one  night.  I  never  enjoyed  any- 
thing so  much  in  my  life,  and  I've  been  longing  for 
another  night  just  like  it  ever  since.  Alec  took  me 
through  that  tract  on  the  way  here.  There's  nothing 
left  of  that  great  pine  forest,  only  farms  and  waste 


Revisited  203 

stumpage  land.  Do  you  happen  to  know  of  any 
foreigners,  a  family  of  Hungarians,  that  used  to  live 
over  there?  We  stayed  with  them  that  night." 

"  No ;  that  must  have  been  before  my  time.  Those 
foreigners  are  here  one  day  and  gone  the  next  if  they 
don't  take  up  land.  I'm  beginnin'  to  understand 
why  ye  come  out  here  now." 

"And  Long  John  was  one  of  our  guides  — " 

"Long  John ? "  Plunket  interrupted  her ;  he  looked 
bewildered.  "Long  John  is  Jane's  father." 

"I  know."  She  nodded  assurance.  "And  I  wanted 
to  see  him  too." 

"Ye  did?"  After  those  two  words,  which  Plunket 
adjudged  safe  in  the  amazing  circumstances,  he  was 
silent.  This  woman's  statements  were  becoming 
incomprehensible ;  he  would  await  developments. 

"I  had  such  a  good  time  with  my  father,  that  I've 
always  felt  if  ever  I  could  get  out  here  again  I  might 
have  the  chance  for  another."  She  spoke  wistfully ; 
then,  with  a  merry  laugh:  "And  I've  'sure'  found 
it." 

It  captivated  Plunket  to  hear  her  quote  his  own 
expressions;  they  were  so  incongruous  —  his  words 
and  the  clear-ringing  but  gentle  voice  in  which  they 
were  uttered. 

When  he  spoke  his  own  voice  was  slightly  husky : 

"Well,  if  bein'  here  with  me  an'  Stella  is  wot  ye 
call  havin'  a  'good  time',  I  ain't  quite  so  sure  as  I 
was  that  ye've  had  all  ye'd  ought  to  in  this  life." 

Alison  Boane  made  no  answer.  She  looked  away 
across  the  fields,  some  lying  fallow,  some  plowed. 
Here  and  there  huge  hayricks  stood  out  boldly  against 
the  dull  horizon  of  overcast  skies.  The  air  was  chill 
with  a  hint  of  snow  in  it.  Here  and  there  the  rem- 


204  Out  of  the  Silences 

nants  of  over-abundant  crops  lay  ungathered,  black- 
ened by  the  recent  heavy  frosts.  On  the  right  an 
acre  or  two  of  dried  faded  cornstalks  rustled  dismally 
as  they  drove  past ;  on  the  left  a  herd  of  swine  were 
nosing  for  artichoke  roots;  farther  on  cattle  were 
grazing  among  stumpage.  She  shivered  slightly. 
Plunket  noticed  it. 

"Ye  cold?    There's  an  extra  robe  under  the  seat." 

"No  —  oh,  no ;  it  must  be  the  air  and  the  dull  gray 
sky.  The  two  together  make  me  think  of  two  or 
three  hours  on  a  trail  through  the  forest  just  before 
we  reached  that  hut.  It  had  begun  to  snow." 

"Wot  month  was  that?" 

"October,  the  very  last ;  and  Antoine  — " 

"Was  that  Antoine  Guilmette?" 

"  Yes ;  did  you  know  him  ?  " 

"Better'n  I  know  you." 

"He  was  our  guide;  we  had  two,  him  and  Long 
John.  He  used  to  play  on  his  clarionet  for  me 
sometimes  in  camp.  I  hoped  he  might  be  living. 
I  wanted  to  find  out  about  a  boy  that  came  to  the 
hut  that  night  through  all  the  wind  and  sleet.  I've 
never  forgotten  him  —  a  little  chap.  He  was  with 
the  Indians  near  a  Chippewa  village.  Long  John 
didn't  speak  any  English  then.  Does  he  now? 
Perhaps  he  could  tell  me  sometime." 

Bill  Plunket  forgot  to  reply  to  her  question.  His 
mind  was  beginning  to  work,  make  back  tracks  over 
twenty-three  years  of  his  life's  trail  to  the  time  of 
his  quest  for  Jane.  It  behooved  him  to  be  cautious. 

"Wot  did  the  boy  come  for?  Anything  to  do 
with  them  foreigners?" 

"No;  he  had  lost  his  dog.  Antoine  said  she  had 
been  lost  for  nearly  three  weeks." 


Revisited  205 

Bill  Plunket's  faded  blue  eyes  suddenly  took  on 
the  look  of  a  hawk  when  it  circles  slowly  above  its 
earth-victim ;  he  was  about  to  pounce  on  his  clue. 

"Such  a  little  lad.  We  felt  so  sorry  for  him.  His 
dog  died  just  as  he  got  there." 

'"Bout  how  old  was  he?" 

"I  don't  know;  father  thought  he  might  be  eleven 
or  twelve." 

"Did  you  learn  his  name?" 

"Only  his  Indian  name.  Antoine  called  him 
'Little  Owl.'  I  suppose  he  must  have  been  a  half- 
breed,  but  he  didn't  look  like  one." 

"He's  no  more  of  a  half-breed  than  you  an'  me." 
Plunket's  tone  was  a  shade  testy.  "I  know  that 
boy.  Yer  speakin'  'bout  the  dog  put  me  on  the 
scent." 

She  turned  to  him,  looking  eagerly  into  his  face. 
"You  knew  him?  Can  you  tell  me  anything  about 
him?" 

"I've  told  ye  'bout  as  much  as  there  is  to  tell. 
That  boy  is  'Son',  Bob  Collamore.  The  Injuns  used 
to  call  him  Little  Owl,  or  Bob-Little  Owl." 

"But  I  thought  you  said  — " 

Plunket  interrupted  her :  "I  know  I  put  ye  on  the 
wrong  trail  by  tellin'  ye  them  foreigners  was  here 
'fore  my  time.  An'  that's  just  as  't  was ;  but  the  year 
before  I  come  over  here  to  settle,  I  come  here  with 
Bob  to  fetch  Jane  back  to  the  mountains.  She'd 
been  visitin'  her  father  a  spell,"  he  added  in  an  off- 
hand manner. 

"Then  perhaps  you  heard  of  me  before  Hendrik 
Olafson  tried  to  propose  to  me  for  the  sake  of  the 
land?" 

"Well,  now  I  think  o'  it,  I  had  heard  o'  ye,  an* 


206  Out  of  the  Silences 

that's  the  truth.  Not  from  Bob.  He's  close- 
mouthed,  an'  was  so  choked  up  over  the  bitch  he 
couldn't,  or  wouldn't  talk  'bout  wot  happened  that 
night.  All  I  knew  was  wot  Jane  said  Long  John 
and  Kinni-kinnik  —  that's  his  grandchild  —  told  her." 

"  Kinni-kinnik  too  !  I'm  beginning  to  find  the  trail 
I've  lost  all  these  years.  She  was  such  a  darling." 

"Bet  yer  life  she  was,  reg'lar  charmer.  She's 
married  to  my  stepson,  McGillie,  I  was  tellin'  ye 
'bout  t'other  day;  he  traps  for  the  Fur  Company. 
She's  got  two  children,  an'  both  o'  'em  havin'  good 
schoolin'  up  at  Groundhouse  —  they  call  it  *  The  New 
Mission  ' ;  't  ain't  so  far  from  Winnipegosis.  Some 
of  our  Injuns  are  on  the  reservation  there." 

"How  strange."  Alison  Doane  spoke  more  to 
herself  than  to  Plunket.  "What  more  did  Kinni- 
kinnik  tell  Jane?"  Somehow  she  could  not  call  her 
Mrs.  Plunket. 

"She  had  a  good  deal  to  say,  so  Jane  said,  an' .for 
quite  a  while  —  long  after  we'd  all  got  back  to  the 
mountains  —  'bout  a  white  girl  an'  a  hut  in  the 
woods,  an'  how  the  white  girl's  father  gave  the  girl  a 
silver  dollar,  and  the  white  girl  gave  it  to  her,  Kinni- 
kinnik,  ye  know.  She  wears  it  round  her  neck  to 
this  day,  —  they  say  she  ain't  never  took  it  off,  — • 
on  a  bead  necklace  McGillie  sent  her  after  he'd  been 
away  from  the  mountain.  I  hadn't  thought  o'  this 
for  twenty-two  years  till  ye  mentioned  the  boy  an1 
the  dog;  then  it  come  back  to  me.  Son  was  hard 
hit,  losing  his  bitch  that  way.  He  loved  that 
dog,  an'  the  boy  was  the  bitch's  god  —  that's  wot 
he  was." 

Then  he  told  her  of  their  camping  on  the  south 
trail  when  they  came  home  to  the  mountains  from  the 


Revisited  207 

fort,  and  of  that  night  incident  in  which  both  bitch 
and  boy  figured  largely. 

When  he  finished  the  woman's  cheeks  were  wet 
with  tears,  and  the  surprised  colt  was  receiving  extra 
and  undeserved  flicks  of  the  lash  on  his  flanks.  These 
he  bore  right  bravely,  for  all  along  the  rough  road 
Bill  Plunket  had  been  continuing  his  education  of 
the  animal.  The  saddle-maker  felt  the  need  of  re- 
lieving the  situation  and,  noticing  this  improvement 
in  his  horse,  turned  to  the  woman  beside  him,  saying : 

"He's  gettin'  whipped  into  shape  like  the  rest  o' 
us;  bearin'  it  noble  too.  We're  going  to  run  close 
to  the  track  just  round  that  piece  o'  woodland  ye 
see,  an'  if  there's  a  train  comin'  he'll  have  to  do 
nobler ;  he's  got  an  awful  grudge  against  'em.  Ye 
set  tight,  if  ye  hear  one,  an'  trust  to  yer  old  friend 
an'  the  best  harness  I've  made  in  the  North  Star 
State,  will  ye?" 

"I'd  trust  you  anywhere,  with  anything."  Alison 
Doane  spoke  impulsively,  smiling  into  his  face. 

She  saw  a  faint  color  creep  up  Bill  Plunket's  cheek 
to  his  temple.  She  could  not  know  that  in  his  old 
age  he  was  tasting  something  of  the  sweetness  of 
congenial  companionship,  a  companionship  that,  born 
under  another  star,  his  life  might  have  offered  him 
in  his  youth  or  middle  age. 

The  train  did  not  pass;  but  the  colt's  education 
continued  until  they  drove  into  the  barn  where  Stella 
unharnessed  him. 

9 

Before  she  left  the  saddle-maker's,  two  weeks 
afterwards,  Miss  Doane  learned  much  from  her 
host  and  his  daughter  of  their  Indian  relatives  and 
their  collateral  friendships.  During  this  time  she 


208  Out  of  the  Silences 

received  a  letter  from  Evelyn  Carrolly  in  Winnipeg 
saying  that  she  and  her  husband  expected  her  to 
meet  them  about  the  second  week  of  November  in 
that  city,  and  from  there  they  would  make  their 
journey  northward  to  Groundhouse,  the  terminus  of 
a  branch  line  of  railroad.  Any  failure  on  her  part 
to  meet  them,  Evelyn  declared,  would  have  for 
penalty  almost  the  breaking  of  friendship.  She  was 
to  expect  a  telegram  now  at  any  time,  setting  the 
date  on  which  they  were  to  start. 

On  reading  this,  Alison  Doane  regretted  for  a 
moment  that  she  had  given  her  promise  to  be  with 
them  and  go  on  with  them.  She  had  planned,  — • 
long  before  they?  made  the  journey  north  together, 
—  to  use  the  ei'ght  hundred  dollars,  the  sacrifice- 
price  for  her  lands,  in  seeing  certain  portions  of  her 
own  country  and  Canada  which  she  had  long  hoped, 
without  any  definite  prospect  of  fulfilment,  to  visit. 
Now  that  she  was  about  to  realize  her  ambition,  she 
wanted  to  be  free  to  see  these  lands  in  her  own  way ; 
and  the  thraldom  of  close  attendance  on  Evelyn 
Carrolly,  while  making  the  trip  entirely  by  train,  a 
mode  of  travel  not  in  her  original  plans,  was  something 
she  did  not  like  to  contemplate,  much  as  she  liked  her 
cousin. 

What  she  wanted  was  something  like  what  she  was 
about  to  leave,  what  she  knew  she  ought  to  leave 
before  Jane  arrived  to  complicate  the  household 
relations.  She  had  read  deep  into  her  saddle-maker's 
heart  —  she  called  him  hers  now  —  all  unbeknown  to 
him ;  and  she  recognized,  also,  the  conditions  facing 
his  daughter.  Stella  had  talked  once  with  her  as 
woman  to  woman,  only  once.  The  girl  was  uncom- 
municative without  being  at  all  taciturn.  She  told 


Revisited  209 

the  older  woman  of  her  trouble.  She  said  she  was 
only  a  half-breed ;  that  she  loved  a  white  man  whom 
she  would  follow  to  the  ends  of  the  world  if  he  would 
permit  her. 

"But,  Stella,"  she  said,  on  that  day  when  they 
spoke  together  so  intimately,  "he  may  love  you,  my 
dear ;  and  if  he  loves  you  the  fact  of  being  what  you 
call  a  half-breed  would  make  no  difference  to  him 
and  should  not  to  you."  Alec  was  in  her  mind  as 
she  spoke. 

"He  does  not  love  me;  he  never  will  love  me," 
was  all  Stella  would  say;  "but  he  was  so  kind 
to  me,  I  would  follow  him  everywhere  if  he  would 
let  me." 

Alison  Doane  perceived  that  the  girl's  point  of 
view  was  that  of  the  young  squaw  and  not  of  the 
white  woman,  and  said  no  more.  But  she  charged 
herself  with  a  certain  wardship  of  Stella,  for  the 
girl's  isolation  among  her  mixed  people  was  only  too 
plain  to  see  and,  in  the  white  woman's  eyes,  had 
already  certain  elements  of  the  tragic. 
10 

Alison  Doane  herself  was  half  Scotch,  her  mother 
having  been  born  in  Montreal  of  Scotch  parentage. 
Her  father  was  an  American,  a  native  of  Maryland. 

She  was  eleven  years  old  when  she  lost  her  mother ; 
but  of  what  that  mother  had  told  her  only  child, 
the  greater  part  was  registered  clearly  and  indelibly 
in  the  little  girl's  memory.  All  her  life  long  she  had 
been  hoping,  planning,  to  make  her  favorite  story 
come  true.  It  was  told  to  her  again  and  again  by 
her  mother,  as  the  two  sat  together  in  the  winter 
evenings  by  the  bright  wood  fire  in  their  home  on 
Chesapeake  Bay.  Mrs.  Doane  was  the  niece  of  a 


2io  Out  of  the  Silences 

trader  in  the  famous  Hudson's  Bay  Company,  and 
once  with  her  mother,  Alison's  grandmother,  made  the 
journey  from  Montreal  to  one  of  the  Company's  posts 
to  visit  him  and  his  family. 

Her  mother's  description  of  that  far  northland, 
her  long  journey  by  water  to  Norway  House,  her 
visit  there  and  the  sight  of  the  famous  "Indian 
Hall";  her  vivid  relation  of  what  she  had  seen  and 
enjoyed  at  another  far  away  Old  Lake  Post  at  which 
her  great  uncle  was  trader ;  her  account  of  the  com- 
ing of  the  canoe  brigades  bringing  the  French  half- 
breeds  with  the  rich  furs  from  the  hinterland ;  of  the 
songs  of  these  voyageurs,  —  she  used  to  sing  them  to 
her  little  daughter  until  the  child  could  sing  them, 
—  their  camps,  their  gay  and  perilous  life  in  the 
wilderness  and  over  the  waterways  of  the  north, 
fascinated  the  child,  held  her  entranced.  She  pinned 
her  childish  faith  to  her  mother's  promise  to  take  her 
into  that  wonderland,  sometime  when  she  should  be 
old  enough. 

Such  seed  as  this,  sown  by  the  mother  in  the  well- 
prepared  ground  of  a  child's  fresh  imagination,  brought 
forth  in  after  years  a  hundredfold.  At  the  time  of 
her  intense  grief  for  her  loss,  the  reliving  in  imagina- 
tion of  what  that  mother  had  told  her  helped  her  to 
forget,  for  a  little,  her  sorrow.  In  the  nearly  seven 
care-free  years  with  her  father  that  followed,  she  was 
able  to  realize  in  part,  by  means  of  her  urgent  plead- 
ing to  be  taken  with  him  on  his  trip  into  northern 
Minnesota,  something  of  her  vision.  Later,  in  her 
womanhood  and  the  years  of  monotonous  work-a-day 
living,  this  dream  of  realizing  sometime  in  the  dim 
future  that  journey  of  her  mother's  into  the  heart 
of  the  big  wonderful  land,  which  was  such  a  revela- 


Revisited  21 1 

tion  to  her,  lightened  her  daily  task ;  refreshed  her  in 
thought,  and  stimulated  her  efforts  to  save. 

As  she  had  not  been  able,  lacking  the  money,  to 
fight  for  the  denuded  pine  lands  which  were  right- 
fully hers,  she  determined  to  do  the  next  best :  take 
what  she  could  get  for  them  and  by  means  of  that 
satisfy  her  longing  to  revisit  Minnesota,  and  the 
Canadian  land  of  her  mother's  birth. 

Her  cousin's  husband,  Philip  Carrolly,  was  in- 
terested in  the  future  development  of  an  extensive 
pulp  wood  plant  far  north  of  the  Old  Lake  Post  and 
the  erection  of  two  large  mills  in  that  region.  In 
correspondence  with  the  trader  there,  having  men- 
tioned to  him  the  fact  of  Alison's  connection  with  a 
former  trader,  he  found  that  gentleman  was  the 
grandson  of  an  old  acquaintance  of  Alison's  great 
uncle.  Mr.  Carrolly  was  at  once  urged  to  accept 
the  hospitality  of  the  house  whenever  his  business 
interests  should  call  him  that  far  north,  and  Alison 
Doane  was  included  in  this  invitation, 
ii 

In  the  few  remaining  days  of  her  stay  with  the 
saddle-maker  and  his  daughter,  Alison  knew  how, 
as  only  a  woman  of  quick  sympathies  can  know,  to 
secure  the  bonds  of  their  unforeseen  friendship.  For 
the  time  their  interests  were  hers.  She  intended  to 
make  them  feel  that  they  would  always  be  hers. 

"You  say  Kinni-kinnik  lives  at  Groundhouse,  so 
I  shall  look  her  up  —  of  course,  not  on  the  reserva- 
tion?" 

It  was  their  last  evening  together.  The  cold  was 
increasing.  Ice  rimmed  the  lake  behind  the  house. 
It  was  already  the  first  of  November.  Alison  had 
been  frying  doughnuts,  a  delectable  of  which  Bill 


212  Out  of  the  Silences 

Plunket  was  inordinately  fond ;  it  was  also  in  a  way 
an  object  lesson  for  Stella.  He  finished  a  big  generous 
mouthful  of  the  delicately  browned  ring  of  sweetened 
bread  before  he  spoke  : 

"No,  she  ain't  there.  McGillie  built  a  log  house,  so 
he  told  me  the  last  time  he  was  here,  a  reg'lar  settler's 
cabin.  It's  big  enough  for  the  family,  he  says,  an' 
Kinni-kinnik  's  a  mighty  good  housekeeper  —  got  her 
learnin'  at  school  just  like  Stella.  He's  goin'  to  put 
up  a  frame  house,  he  says,  when  he  can  settle  down 
reg'larly  to  raisin'  some  crops.  He  just  comes  an' 
goes  now.  He's  done  well,  McGillie  has;  been 
savin',  too,  an'  his  wife  has  helped  him." 

"I  shall  try  to  see  her  very  soon  after  I  get  there. 
I  do  wish  I  might  see  Colin  McGillie  too." 

Bill  Plunket  smiled.  "He  ain't  wot  ye  call  hand- 
some, McGillie  ain't,  but  he's  true  blue."  He  burst 
into  a  mighty  laugh.  "Get  him  to  tell  ye  how  he 
an'  Bob  fought  for  Kinni-kinnik  sometime  —  it's 
better  fun  than  seein'  a  billy-goat  butting  a  tender- 
foot. But  I  can  tell  ye  Kinni-kinnik's  lucky  to  get 
him;  he's  faithful  as  the  sun.  I  don't  know  where 
he  is  now,  an'  I  guess  Kinni-kinnik  ain't  any  wiser. 
I  s'pose  he  is  a  hundred  miles  or  so  north  of  Ground- 
house.  Ever  been  on  a  reservation  ?" 

"Never;  all  this  is  before  me.  About  what  year 
did  your  Indian  neighbors  leave  the  Turtle  Moun- 
tains?" 

"They  left  two  or  three  families  at  a  time.  Let 
me  see  —  I  got  out  in  1894  just  'bout  when  the 
Government  had  begun  to  take  notice  o'  the  timber. 
If  I  ain't  makin'  a  mistake,  I  think  it  was  the  very 
next  year  the  Government  bit  out  a  slice,  'bout 
seventy  thousand  acres,  for  a  kind  o'  timber  reserve, 


Revisited  213 

an'  'long  'bout  1906  they  made  it  a  reg'lar  forest 
reserve.  It  wasn't  no  place  for  squatters  an'  Injuns, 
an'  little  by  little  the  Injuns  moved  on. 

"Great  place,  though,  them  Turtle  Mountains. 
Bob  told  me  when  he  was  here  last  month  he  was 
goin'  through  'em  again  just  for  old  time's  sake. 
He  ain't  been  there  since  he  left  twenty-one  years 
ago.  I'll  bet  he'll  find  a  big  change.  It's  a  good 
place  to  keep  stock  —  I  kept  some ;  grass  grows 
knee-deep  all  'round  the  sloughs;  an'  all  over  the 
burnt  places,  brules  we  call  'em,  there's  the  best 
pasture  goin'.  An'  the  fishin'  in  them  lakes,  — 
Lord !  it  makes  me  homesick  just  to  think  of  it,  — 
the  maskinonge,  big  fat-bellied  fellers,  some  o'  'em 
weighing  twenty  pounds ;  an'  good  wild-eatin',  par- 
tridge an'  duck  aplenty. 

"Since  the  settlers  begun  to  come  in  there  there's 
been  fires  on  the  mountain  an'  not  much  timber  left. 
I  was  nothin'  but  a  squatter,  but  I  never  set  fire 
to  so  much  as  a  raspberry  patch  in  all  the  years  I 
lived  there." 

"And  where  is  Bob  Collamore  now?"  In  Alison 
Doane's  consciousness  the  saddle-maker's  "Son" 
always  presented  himself  as  the  boy  she  had  seen 
so  long  ago.  In  her  imagination  he  had  never  grown 
Up ;  hence  her  free  use  of  his  name. 

"I  dunno  where  Bob  is  now.  He's  what  I  call  a 
roamer;  he's  never  staid  put  anywheres  except 
when  he  was  at  that  place  for  trainin'  experts.  He 
told  me  he  was  goin'  up  to  the  mountain  from  here, 
an'  then,  he  said,  he  was  goin'  on  some  business  to 
Ottawa  an'  afterwards  up  north  —  he  didn't  say  wot, 
an'  he  ain't  the  kind  ye  want  to  ask  questions  'bout 
wot  ye  might  call  his  personal  property.  But  I'll 


214  Out  of  the  Silences 

bet  I  ain't  far  wrong  if  I  say  it's  somp'in'  to  do  with 
this  war  business.  He  ain't  goin'  to  stay  out  o'  this 
fight  if  I  know  him,  an'  I  know  him  better'n  any 
other  man  on  earth  does,  seein'  I  brought  him  up. 
But  if  ye  see  McGillie,  he'll  likely  tell  ye." 

"I  am  beginning  to  fear  I  shan't  even  see  McGillie. 
I  don't  know  how  long  my  cousins  are  going  to  stay 
in  the  north,  till  we  get  there ;  indeed,  I'm  sure  they 
don't  know  themselves." 

"Stella  can  send  a  postcard  to  McGillie  to  find  out, 
but  it  ain't  likely  to  reach  him.  They  don't  have 
no  reg'lar  mail  this  side  o'  the  North  Pole  an'  the 
Saskatchewan,  not  yet." 

"I  feel  as  if  I  knew  it  already,  just  hearing  about 
all  your  friends  there." 

"Ye'll  have  to  take  plenty  o'  clothes  with  ye  up 
there,  I  can  tell  ye." 

"I  am  going  to  look  out  for  that  in  Winnipeg." 

So  their  talk  drifted  on  rather  aimlessly.  They 
knew  the  cozy  evening  chats  in  the  warm  kitchen 
were  to  be  things  of  the  past.  They  went  early  to 
bed,  for  the  start  was  to  be  directly  after  breakfast 
on  the  morrow. 

The  three  drove  the  five  miles  to  the  station  in  a 
double-seated  spring  wagon.  Jane  had  preempted 
their  only  "buggy"  for  her  excursion  to  Red  Lake 
Reservation.  The  air  was  crisping  cold,  clear,  filled 
with  brilliant  low  sunshine.  The  heavy  frost,  with 
all  the  effect  of  snow,  lay  sparklingly  white  on  stump- 
age  land,  furrow,  glebe,  pastures,  and  on  the  roofs 
of  the  isolated  farmhouses.  Even  the  rails  running 
westwards  to  the  horizon  were  white. 

They  said  but  little,  the  three,  as  they  waited  for 
the  train  at  the  small  bare  station.  The  saddle- 


Revisited  215 

maker  leaned  from  the  wagon  —  he  could  not  leave 
it  at  the  critical  moment  of  the  train's  arrival,  owing 
to  the  colt's  still  undisciplined  nerves  —  to  grasp 
the  hand  held  up  to  him. 

"Ye'll  come  again,  I  take  it." 

"As  surely  as  I  live."  So  answered  Alison  Doane, 
for  she  loved  this  old  man  whose  influence  must 
continue  to  be  felt  by  her  so  long  as  she  should  live. 

"If  ye  see  Colin  an'  Kinni-kinnik,  an'  any  o'  the 
others  up  at  the  New  Mission,  ye  tell  'em  the  old 
man  don't  forget  'em,  never,  an'  that  if  my  rheu- 
matics would  let  me  I'd  like  to  visit  with  'em  all 
again,  same's  we  used  to  in  Turtle  Mountains." 

"I  shan't  forget,  and  I  shall  stop  over  here  to  see 
you  on  my  way  back,  if  only  for  a  day.  Stella,  you 
have  promised  to  write  to  me  often." 

The  girl  nodded  and  smiled. 

"There's  no  knowin',  ye  might  run  across  Bob  on 
yer  trails  north  and  south ;  if  ye  do,  ye  tell  him  from 
me  to  let  me  know  'bout  that  war  business  as  soon 
as  he  knows  himself." 

"I  surely  will  if  I  ever  see  him,  and  I  do  so  hope  I 
may.  He  was  such  a  weepy  boy  the  last  time  I  saw 
him,  just  crying  his  heart  out  —  inside,  I  mean. 
My  own  heart  ached  for  him." 

The  train  came  to  a  stop,  and  Bill  Plunket  found 
his  hands  full  in  managing  the  surprised  and  terrified 
colt. 

Alison  Doane  had  a  glimpse  of  him  as  the  wagon 
gyrated  out  of  sight  behind  the  station,  and  a  vision 
of  Stella  attempting  to  climb  in  over  the  tailboard. 


II 

AT  THE  NEW   MISSION 


II 

AT  THE   NEW   MISSION 


THE  multiple  roots  of  the  Saskatchewan  are  fed1 
from  the  snows  and  glaciers  of  the  Rockies.  Its 
two  great  branches,  the  North  and  South  Saskatche- 
wan, flow  together  at  "the  Forks",  seven  hundred 
miles  to  the  east  of  their  snow-fed  mountain  sources. 

It  is  a  magnificent,  natural,  and  almost  equilateral 
triangle  so  formed.  Its  base  is  the  mountain- 
bastioned  wilderness  of  western  Alberta.  Its  sides 
are  the  two  noble  eastward-flowing  rivers.  Its 
apex  is  the  junction  of  the  two  in  the  province  of 
Saskatchewan. 

The  territory,  hundreds  of  thousands  of  square 
miles  in  extent,  enclosed  in  this  vast  Canadian 
triangle,  has  been  the  scenic  setting  for  the  thrilling 
drama  and  final  tragedy  of  the  great  Indian  tribes 
of  the  North. 

2 

^From  "the  Forks"  eastward  two  hundred  miles, 
the  river  skirts  the  dense  evergreen  forests  of  the  sub- 
arctic North ;  but  thence  onwards  to  its  far  distant 
mouth  on  the  shore  of  Winnipeg,  its  characteristics 
are  completely  changed.  They  are  those  of  a  vast 
delta:  marshes,  thousands  of  lakes,  a  myriad  of 
intricate  waterways  —  highways  for  the  old  French. 
219 


22O  Out  of  the  Silences 

voyageurs,  for  the  Indian  hunters  and  trappers  from 
the  hinterland. 

Beyond  the  northern  bank  lies  an  immense  network 
of  waterways  extending  into  subarctic  regions.  For 
a  hundred  miles  along  its  southern  bank  stretch  the 
marshlands,  silent  save  for  the  rustle  of  reeds,  the 
whistling  wings  of  wild  duck,  the  "wailing  call"  of 
wild  fowl  on  their  southward  flight. 

Its  entire  delta  course  for  hundreds  of  miles  dupli- 
cates in  a  curious  fashion,  but  far  more  grandly,  the 
complex  water  system  of  the  Lake  of  the  Woods, 
Rainy  River,  its  lake-like  expanses  and  shallows. 
Southeast  of  these  marvellous  Saskatchewan  water 
courses,  that  make  of  that  far  northern  region  a 
continental  Venice  with  its  myriads  of  connecting 
water  highways  for  intercourse,  traffic,  and  explora- 
tion, lie  the  Great  Lakes  of  Manitoba  —  the  Great 
Sea,  the  Little  Sea,  the  Strait  of  God.  These,  again, 
duplicate  the  Great  Lakes  system  of  the  United  States 
southeast  of  the  international  water  boundary  of  the 
Rainy  River  system. 

From  west  to  east  along  the  river's  entire  length, 
are  found  the  famous  clearing  houses  of  the  great 
Fur  Company.  From  Jasper  House  of  the  old  days, 
in  the  Canadian  Rockies,  to  far  away  Norway  House 
on  Winnipeg,  they  have  formed  and  form,  as  it  were, 
great  trade  ganglia  for  that  north  land. 

North  and  south  of  the  mighty  river,  from  far  be- 
yond desolate  Lac  la  Ronge  to  the  upland  forests  of 
the  Turtle  Mountains,  there  have  been  established 
from  time  to  time,  during  the  centuries,  the  multiple 
lesser  trading  posts  of  the  Company.  These  serve  as 
smaller  nerve  centres,  their  traffic  being  fed  by  the 
arterial  circulation  of  the  Canadian  waters  through 


At  the  New  Mission  221 

the  swamps  and  woods  of  the  hinterland,  so  rich  in 
that  wild  life  which  yields  to  trapper  and  hunter  the 
furs  that  find  their  way  to  the  centres  of  civilization. 

Many  of  these  smaller  posts  no  longer  exist.  With 
their  passing  has  passed  the  old  Turtle  Mountain 
House.  The  tracking  of  a  continent,  and  the  com- 
petition of  constantly  extending  railroad  systems 
have  changed  in  many  ways  the  old  order.  The 
railroads  are  extending  their  iron  fingers  northwards, 
ever  northwards  —  tapping  here,  tapping  there  the 
hitherto  undreamed-of  resources  of  the  great  sub- 
arctic regions.  The  mysterious  hinterland  has,  at 
last,  been  brought  into  contact  with  the  borderland. 

Upon  the  tracking  of  this  great  land  has  followed 
the  segregation  of  the  Indian  tribes  of  the  North; 
and  to-day  many  of  the  reservations,  large  and  small, 
may  be  found  in  juxtaposition  to  a  trading  post. 

Prior,  however,  to  the  coming  of  the  iron  horses 
whose  race  course  is  the  breadth  of  a  continent,  long 
before  the  Indians  were  placed  on  reservations, 
missions,  small  and  large,  were  established  here  and 
there  among  the  tribes  of  the  northern  wilderness. 
Hence  it  is  not  unusual  to  find  mission  and  reserva- 
tion in  part  amalgamated. 

Many  a  pioneer's  cabin  on  the  confines  of  a  reserva- 
tion has  aspired  to  and  attained,  with  the  coming  of 
a  branch  line  of  a  railroad,  the  dignity  of  a  settlement. 
Many  an  insignificant  settlement  has  thriven,  out  of 
all  proportion  to  its  size,  by  the  extension  of  the 
logging  interests  to  the  northwards  —  its  own  little 
railroad  community  serving  for  a  more  southern  base. 

Groundhouse,  or  the  New  Mission,  is  one  of  these. 
Here  the  hinterland  touches  the  little  community 
fast  growing  into  something  more  important,  and  a 


222  Out  of  the  Silences 

traveller  finds  himself  in  a  curiously  apportioned  land 
where  the  whistle  of  an  engine  at  the  front  door  of  the 
settlement  might  possibly  drown  the  moan  of  moose 
at  the  back. 

This  was  a  part  of  the  charm  which,  with  each 
new  day,  cast  anew  its  spell  on  Alison  Doane.  Of 
her  acquaintance  with  Kinni-kinnik  and  her  children, 
with  Carmastic,  Chum's  wife,  and  her  little  pappooses 
on  the  reservation  just  out  of  the  town,  she  had  made 
no  mention  to  her  cousins.  These  were  the  things  of 
her  life  that  did  not  enter  into  their  particular  lives. 
Alison  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  explain  that 
for  which  no  explanation  was  asked  or  needed. 

3 

"I  don't  see  what  you  can  find  so  fascinating  in 
that  reservation;  one  visit  was  enough  for  me." 
Mrs.  Carrolly  had  run  out  of  the  common  topics  of 
conversation  and  begun  to  turn  the  heel  of  another 
stocking.  She  counted  aloud,  and  Alison  did  not 
interrupt  her  until  she  had  finished. 

The  Carrollys  were  waiting  for  the  substantial 
freezing  of  the  waters  of  river,  lake,  and  creek  in 
order  to  make  their  trip  to  the  incipient  pulp-mill 
plant  many  miles  to  the  north.  Before  their  arrival, 
the  foreman  and  his  wife,  who  were  to  accompany 
them,  took  advantage  of  the  fine  October  weather 
and  practically  open  waters  to  go  northwards  to 
their  station  and  settle  before  the  severe  weather 
should  set  in.  Mr.  Carrolly  was  waiting  at  Ground- 
house  for  some  further  instructions  from  the 
company  that  was  financing  the  lumber  enterprise 
of  which  he  was  chief  promoter,  as  well  as  director, 
and  for  Davies,  the  forestry  expert,  to  go  with  them 
to  try  out  the  situation  in  the  north  from  an  expert's 


At  the  New  Mission  223 

point  of  view.  Mrs.  Carrolly  was  growing  impatient 
at  the  delay. 

Alison  was  sitting  at  the  window  of  the  one  hotel 
in  town,  watching  the  passing  of  a  curious  mixture 
of  humanity  that  drew  her  interest  with  the  strength 
of  a  magnet.  She  turned  to  Mrs.  Carrolly. 

"It's  the  whole  thing  that  is  fascinating  —  the 
people,  the  settlement,  marshes,  even  the  railroad 
station  away  up  here  in  this  wilderness ;  think  of 
it!  And  this  wonderful  coming  of  winter  here  — 
I've  seen  these  waters  freeze,  heard  them  too." 

Mrs.  Carrolly  dropped  her  ball  of  yarn  into  her 
knitting  bag. 

"I  haven't  the  remotest  idea  what  you  mean, 
Alison;  but  if  you  can  find  this  sort  of  thing  fas- 
cinating, you  are  welcome  to  it,  and  every  detail 
of  it.  I  couldn't  endure  it  a  moment  if  it  weren't 
for  you  and  Phil,  and  the  return,  sometime,  to  New 
York  and  my  special  duties."  She  sighed  audibly. 

Alison  repressed  a  smile.  She  was  intimately 
acquainted  with  what  Mrs.  Carrolly  called  her 
"duties." 

"Anyway,  I  intend  to  stick  by  Phil;  he  wouldn't 
enjoy  anything  without  me."  She  spoke  with  com- 
fortable assurance.  "And  the  trip  to  the  plant  will 
be  something  new.  Of  course  we  shall  have  to  rough 
it." 

"I  shall  love  it  all.  It's  just  what  I've  been  long- 
ing for  all  my  life."  Alison  spoke  enthusiastically, 
ignoring  the  fact,  that  of  what  appealed  to  her  Evelyn 
Carrolly  had  no  conception. 

Mrs.  Carrolly  looked  up  suddenly  from  her  knitting ; 
there  was  a  curiously  incredulous  and  tolerant  lift  to 
her  eyebrows. 


224  Out  of  the"  Silences 

"You're  queer,  Me."  That  was  all  she  said,  but 
it  expressed  a  full  quarto  volume  of  what  she  was 
thinking. 

Alison  Doane  laughed  her  merry  laugh  of  which 
her  cousin  was  always  envious.  "I  know  I  must 
be,  dear,  if  you  and  Phil  say  so.  But  I  mean  it :  I 
am  having  a  royal  good  time ;  the  only  drawback  is 
that  it  will  not  last  long  enough." 

"There's  Phil!"  Mrs.  Carrolly  exclaimed,  hearing 
his  step  in  the  hall.  She  flew  to  the  door  and,  open- 
ing it  wide,  welcomed  him  as  if  he  had  just  returned 
from  an  Arctic  expedition.  It  was  her  way,  and 
her  husband  liked  it.  She  flung  her  arms  about 
his  neck  and  gave  him  what  Alison  called  a  simul- 
acrum of  a  kiss;  it  was  landed  anywhere  on  her 
husband's  devoted  head  from  crown,  to  ear,  or  neck. 

' '  Any  news,  dear  ?  " 

"I  should  say  so."  He  held  out  a  package  of 
letters  and  a  telegram.  "Look  at  that!  All  our 
plans  for  a  quick  get-away  from  here  upset."  He 
sat  down  with  a  discouraged  flump  in  an  up-to-date 
Grand  Rapids  rocking  chair,  and  Mrs.  Carrolly,  a 
roly-poly  little  woman,  perched  herself  on  the  arm. 

"Let's  hear  all  about  it,  Phil.  If  we  have  to  stay 
here,  it  will  be  all  the  better  for  Me."  There  was 
a  slight  sarcasm  in  her  tone. 

"How's  that?"  Phil  Carrolly  looked  at  Alison 
inquiringly. 

"Never  mind  her,  Phil;  it's  only  Evelyn's  non- 
sense. Tell  us  the  news." 

"Davies  can't  come." 

"Can't  come?"  Mrs.  Carrolly  echoed,  distinct 
disappointment  in  her  tone.  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"Mean  what  I  say.    He  is  laid  up  for  the  winter, 


At  the  New  Mission  225 

and  they're  trying  to  get  in  touch  with  another  man, 
don't  say  who,  to  take  over  the  job  and  join  us  here ; 
for  this  work  must  be  done  if  I  stay  up  here  all 
winter." 

Mrs.  Carrolly  groaned.     "  Oh,  Phil ! " 

"I  know  that  'Oh,  Phil.'  I've  heard  it  too  many 
times  to  mistake  it,  my  dear."  Her  husband  spoke 
testily.  "But  please  understand,  that  'Oh,  Phil' 
or  no  '  Oh,  Phil ',  I'm  going  to  see  this  thing  through. 
I  haven't  left  my  good  hot-water-heated  home  to 
come  up  here  halfway  to  the  North  Pole,  and  go 
back  without  trying  out  that  new  investment.  An 
expert  is  just  now  the  keystone  of  my  arch;  if 
I  don't  get  him  the  whole  thing  will  fall  to  pieces. 
There  doesn't  happen  to  be  a  limited  Pullman  from 
New  York,  in  these  parts.  You  see  what  he  says." 
He  handed  her  the  telegram ;  she  read  aloud : 

"'Advise  you  by  wire  within  ten  days,  not  before; 
letter  follows.'" 

Mrs.  Carrolly,  seeing  her  husband's  state  of  mind, 
suddenly  tacked,  veering  suddenly  into  other  waters 
well  oiled  by  her  wifely  and  really  sound  common  sense. 

"Ten  days?  Oh,  that  isn't  so  bad,  Phil.  I  was 
thinking  of  ten  months  when  you  first  spoke.  Alison 
will  be  only  too  delighted  to  stay  right  on ;  and,  you 
know,  dear,  I'm  only  too  glad  to  help  out  even  if  we 
end  by  camping  on  the  Arctic  Circle.  I  don't  believe 
I  could  feel  farther  north  even  there."  She  popped 
a  kiss,  or  something  that  sounded  like  one,  on  the 
small  bald  spot  on  the  top  of  her  husband's  much- 
troubled  head.  Mr.  Carrolly  looked  into  her  face 
and  smiled. 

"You're  a  brick,  Eve.  I  didn't  know  how  you 
would  take  it." 


226  Out  of  the  Silences 

"Didn't  know!  Why,  Phil  Carrolly,"  she  pro- 
tested, withdrawing  in  mock  indignation  from  his 
detaining  hand;  "you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself  to  say  such  a  thing,  much  less  think  it, 
of  the  wife  of  your  bosom." 

She  fluttered  away  to  her  travelling  tea-basket 
to  make  the  tea,  which  they  found  so  delectable  be- 
cause her  making  of  it  was  an  art,  declaring  hot  drink, 
in  this  climate,  to  be  a  continuous  and  necessary 
"pick-me-up." 

"I  thought  I  had  better  come  back  here  and  talk 
it  over  with  you  girls  before  wiring  any  answer," 
her  husband  remarked,  comfortably  sipping  his  tea. 

"You  are  a  dear,  Philip  Carrolly;  that's  just  like 
you,  always  thinking  first  of  me."  She  beamed  on 
him  over  her  cup. 

Carrolly  looked  at  his  wife  with  an  indulgent 
smile;  then  he  turned  a  quizzical  look  in  Alison's 
direction.  But  she  was  apparently  oblivious. 

"As  for  me,  Phil,"  she  said,  "I've  just  been  telling 
Evelyn  I  can't  get  enough  of  this  life  here ;  so  you 
won't  expect  me  to  go  into  mourning  because  we're 
kept  here  a  few  days  longer." 

"Glad  you  take  it  so,  Alie.  It  isn't  every  man 
can  find  such  backers  as  you  two  women,  bless  you. 
Being  gratefully  appreciative,  I'll  proceed  to  drop  a 
bomb  into  your  camp.  I  know  it's  dead  slow  here 
for  you,  Eve  —  you  need  something  new  to  brace 
you  up;  and  I  don't  believe  half  you  say,  Alie. 
How  does  it  strike  you  to  go  up  the  lake  by  sleigh 
as  far  as  the  Old  Lake  Post  and  make  your  visit  there 
while  I  am  killing  time  here,  for  ten  days,  waiting 
to  hear  from  headquarters  and  the  new  man?" 

v"I  won't  stir  one  step  without  you,  Phil  Carrolly." 


At  the  New  Mission  227 

Mrs.  Carrolly  spoke  emphatically.  "Alison  can  do 
just  as  she  pleases,  of  course.  I  will  wait  to  go  on 
with  you  — " 

"Then  there  will  be  no  visit  for  you,  my  dear,  for 
when  I  once  get  started  with  the  new  man  and  all 
our  outfit  I  don't  stop  to  visit  on  the  way,  except  for 
one  night  to  take  ad  vantage  of  our  host's  hospitality." 

"What  do  you  say  to  that,  Alison?"  Mrs.  Car- 
rolly inquired  rather  eagerly. 

"I'm  torn  in  two.  I  want  to  visit  at  the  Old 
Post  —  it's  what  I  came  for  —  and  I  want  to  stay 
here,  there  is  so  much  to  interest  me."  Mrs.  Car- 
rolly sent  an  expressive  look  in  her  husband's  direction. 

"Well,  if  you  will  take  my  advice  you'll  see  the 
Old  Post  first,  and  trust  to  luck  for  seeing  more  of 
the  New  Mission  another  time.  I  do  believe  you 
like  it  well  enough  to  settle  here." 

"Almost,"  Alison  admitted  with  a  smile;  "but  I 
am  going  to  act  on  your  advice,  Evelyn,  and  get  in 
that  visit  at  the  post  in  case  something  should  happen 
to  the  new  man  to  lay  him  up  too,  for  then  you  and 
Phil  would  be  off  at  short  notice ;  and  I  do  so  want 
to  see  it,  not  only  for  my  own  sake  but  for  mother's." 

"Of  course  you  do,  Alie  dear;  and  it's  the  only 
sensible  thing  for  you  to  do  in  the  circumstances. 
Perhaps  Phil  and  I  —  all  three  of  us,  I  mean  —  can 
stop  on  our  way  back  from  the  plant." 

"  Well,  that's  settled,"  said  her  husband.  "Another 
cup  of  tea,  Eve,  and  then  I'll  go  and  send  a  telegram 
to  the  company  that  everything  is  O.  K.  and  we  will 
wait  here  for  the  new  man." 

4 

After  Mr.  Carrolly  had  left  them,  Alison  spoke 
suddenly : 


228  Out  of  the  Silences 

"How  did  you  know,  Evelyn?" 

Mrs.  Carrolly,  surprised  and  puzzled,  stopped 
short  in  the  wiping  of  the  teacups  that  Alison  had 
washed  in  a  tin  basin  purchased  at  the  one  shop, 
a  department  affair  in  its  way. 

"Know  what?" 

"Know  that  you  truly  loved  Phil." 

"Know  how  I  loved  Phil?"  Mrs.  Carrolly  was 
reduced  to  a  mere  echo. 

"Mn—  " 

"I  declare,  Alison,  you  switch  from  one  thing  to 
another  so  fast  I  can't  follow  you."  In  her  amaze- 
ment she  put  the  wiped  cup  back  into  the  basin, 
an  act  that  in  the  circumstances  Alison  let  pass 
without  protest.  "I  was  just  planning  everything 
all  out  in  my  mind  for  your  trip  to  the  Old  Post 
and  thinking  you  were  doing  the  very  same  thing, 
and  here  you  ask  me  how  I  know  I  love  my  husband ! 
My  dear,  you  are  preposterous  at  tunes.  What  do 
you  want  to  know  for  ?  " 

Alison  laughed;  she  could  not  help  it.  Her 
cousin's  tone  of  indignation  mingled  with  conde- 
scension proved  too  much  for  her  sense  of  humor; 
however,  she  persisted. 

"But  tell  me  truly,  how  did  you  know  you  loved 
Phil  twenty  years  ago?  I  didn't  ask  you  how  you 
know  you  love  him  now.  Do  tell  me,"  she  added 
with  a  merry  look  in  her  blue  eyes;  "it  will  help 
me—" 

"Help  you?"  Mrs.  Carrolly  repeated  vacantly. 
"Whatever  has  got  into  you  to-day?  You  don't 
mean  —  Alison  Doane  ! "  she  exclaimed  in  crescendo 
tones  and  excitement,  "you  don't  mean  you  are 
thinking  of  being  married  —  not  really  — " 


At  the  New  Mission  229 

A  peal  of  laughter  interrupted  her,  and  hearing  it 
Evelyn  Carrolly  laughed  with  her.  It  struck  her 
as  so  perfectly  absurd  that  Alison  at  thirty-seven 
should  ask  such  a  question. 

"Oh,  Evelyn,  I  do  believe  you  think  every  trail 
for  a  woman  ends  in  a  man  — " 

"Why,  of  course  I  do;  and  didn't  I  tell  Phil  that 
very  thing  after  we  left  you  on  the  station  platform 
at  Bemidji?  /  knew  well  enough  that  you  would 
never  go  off  alone,  nosing  around  those  old  pine 
lands,  that  were  no  longer  yours,  and  no  money  in 
them  as  Phil  told  you  in  my  presence,  unless  there 
were  a  man  on  your  horizon.  Now  sit  down  here 
with  me  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  I've  just  prayed, 
yes,  you  may  laugh,  but  I  have,  for  this  day  —  and 
sometime  you  will  realize  it."  She  seated  herself 
in  the  rocking  chair,  and  Alison  again  at  the  window. 

"Now  tell  me,  there's  a  dear." 

"Well,  I  will  own  up  to  you,  Evelyn,"  —  Mrs. 
Carrolly  leaned  forward  on  her  chair,  her  hands 
clasped,  tense  with  anticipation,  —  "and  I  don't 
mind  telling  you.  There  was  a  man  in  the  case  — " 

"Didn't  I  know  it!  Didn't  I  tell  Phil  I  felt  it 
in  my  very  bones  ! "  Evelyn  forgot  that  this  was  an 
inspired  invention  of  the  moment,  but  she  repeated  it 
to  her  husband  afterwards  as  a  very  literal  truth, 
although  he  failed  to  recall  her  anatomical  statement. 

"You  see,  he  proposed  to  me  — " 

"No,  not  really!"  In  her  excitement  Evelyn  was 
totally  unaware  of  her  contradiction;  she  intended 
her  words  only  for  an  expression  of  amazement. 

"Yes,  about  three  years  ago;  he  wrote  to  me 
through  his  brother." 

"Why  didn't  he  write  himself?"    It  was  a  prac- 


230  Out  of  the  Silences 

tical  question.  Alison  recognized  it  as  such  and 
answered  accordingly. 

"I  think  he  lacked  the  courage.  You  see,  I  did 
own  that  land  at  that  time,  and  I  think  he  felt  I 
might  doubt  his  love  for  me  and  think  him  not  quite 
disinterested  as  to  the  land.  He  lived  near  there  — • 
the  pine  lands,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  he  did?  Well,  that  only  confirms  my  intui- 
tions. I  said  to  Phil,  let  a  woman  alone  for  having 
intuitions.  Now  come  right  to  the  point,  Alison. 
Tell  me  if  you  have  any  idea  of  marrying  the  man, 
who  he  is,  and  what  are  his  prospects.  I  can't 
somehow  fancy  you  caring  for  a  man  who  is  not  city 
bred.  Did  you  see  him,  and  what  was  he  doing  out 
there?  Looking  for  investments?  Most  men  out 
this  way"  —  Mrs.  Carrolly  took  in  all  the  country 
between  the  forty-eighth  and  sixtieth  parallel  of 
latitude  in  the  expressive  sweep  of  her  hand  —  "are 
looking  for  investments  or  prospecting." 

Alison  thought  it  time  to  stem  the  flow  of  speech 
and  speculation.  "No,  I  am  not  going  to  marry 
him,  and  so  it  would  be  hardly  fair  to  him  to  give 
more  details  about  such  an  affair.  But  I  just  thought 
I  would  like  to  know  how  a  woman  knows  she  loves  a 
man  — •" 

Mrs.  Carrolly  pouted  a  little.  "You  are  making 
fun  of  me,  Alison  Doane,  and  treating  the  really 
sacred  things  of  life  too  lightly." 

Hearing  this  pronouncement,  Alison  laughed  again 
without  restraint. 

"Oh,  Evelyn,  I'm  thinking  of  the  nights  you 
pinched  me  to  keep  me  awake  just  for  the  sake  of 
talking  about  this  very  matter;  and  I  was  sixteen 
and  you  were  nineteen  — " 


At  the  New  Mission  231 

"Oh,  well,  if  you're  going  back  nearly  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  I  may  as  well  get  my  knitting  and  we'll 
have  a  regular  seance." 

She  made  a  feint  of  rising.  Alison  put  out  a  hand 
to  detain  her.  She  wanted  an  answer  before  her 
cousin  grew  absorbed  in  turning  the  remainder  of 
that  heel. 

"No,  truly,  Evelyn,  I'm  in  dead  earnest  — " 

"You  act  so,"  interpolated  Mrs.  Carrolly  scorn- 
fully, but  biting  her  lips  to  keep  from  smiling.  Alison 
was  really  too  absurd.  She  wondered  if  she  had 
thrown  away  another  good  match. 

"Do  tell  me  how  you  knew?" 

"How  I  knew?  Why  —  well,  I  knew;  that's  all. 
One  can't  define  those  things  off-hand." 

"But  how  did  you  know  that  Phil  was  the  man  — 
no  other,  I  mean,  in  the  whole  world  for  you?" 

"Good  gracious,  Alison,"  Mrs.  Carrolly  looked 
slightly  startled,  "there  you  go  again.  Who  ever 
said  I  thought  Phil  was  the  only  man  in  the  whole 
world !  I  know  Phil  is  Phil,  and  the  dearest  ever ; 
but  you  have  one  thing  to  learn,  Alison  Doane," 
—  she  looked  at  her  with  a  sharp  challenge  in  her 
rather  keen  blue  eyes,  —  "a  woman  can  love  her 
husband  devotedly  and  yet  not  be  oblivious  to  the 
fact  that  there  are  other  men  in  the  world.  It 
warps  a  woman  to  see  but  one  man  in  her  universe. 
It  warps  her  judgment  and  —  and  appreciation  of 
others.  That's  where  I  find  you  so  narrow." 

Alison  nodded  understandingly.  "I  know.  But 
tell  me  about  Phil." 

"Why,  there  isn't  much  to  tell.  All  the  girls  were 
crazy  to  get  him,  and  he  devoted  himself  to  me  — 
you  know  how  handsome  he  was  then.  And  he 


232  Out  of  the  Silences 

loved  me  and  asked  me  to  marry  him,  if  you  will 
have  details,  and  that's  how  I  knew  I  loved  him. 
Now  I  hope  you're  satisfied.  I'm  going  to  finish 
this  heel  before  he  gets  back.  I  shall  devote  every 
minute  to  him  now  during  this  '  waiting  'round.'  You 
see,  I  know  when  Phil  needs  me ;  and  if  there  is  one 
thing  he  hates  it  is  for  me  not  to  look  at  him  when 
he's  talking,  and  how  can  I  when  I'm  knitting  stock- 
ings?" 

It  was  all  so  delightfully  illogical  that  Alison 
found  nothing  to  say,  although  at  thirty-seven  she 
would  have  given  much  if  she  could  have  been  en- 
lightened, by  ever  so  small  a  beam,  along  the  way  in 
the  direction  in  which  her  question  pointed.  At 
least,  she  had  had  a  bit  of  fun  at  Evelyn's  expense 
in  telling  her  about  Farmer  Hendrik's  marriage 
intentions.  It  would  keep  Evelyn  guessing  for  a 
while. 

5 

The  next  day  Alison  walked  out  to  Kinni-kinnik's 
house,  a  modest  log  hut,  well  built,  with  a  second 
story  loft  and  a  few  windows  — a  good  type  of 
the  practical  settler's  home.  A  board  walk  led  from 
the  front  door  to  the  gate.  In  the  background, 
across  the  clearing,  the  pointed  tips  of  a  dense  stand 
of  spruce  accented  the  hard  unflecked  blue  of  the 
November  sky. 

She  had  been  a  frequent  visitor  here  since  her 
coming  two  weeks  before.  The  children  were  at 
school,  and  the  two  women  sat  down  for  a  chat, 
Kinni-kinnik  speaking  English  in  her  own  way.  She 
had  learned  a  little  from  her  small  adorer,  Bob 
Collamore,  during  her  childhood  in  the  Turtle  Moun- 
tains; had  learned  much  more  in  the  school  after 


At  the  New  Mission  233 

Indians  removed  to  Groundhouse,  and  most  from 
her  husband,  Colin  Me  Gillie,  during  the  twelve  years 
of  their  married  life. 

"I  want  to  know,  Mrs.  McGillie,  if  you  will  go 
over  to  the  reservation  with  me  to-morrow?  I  want 
to  see  the  old  medicine-man  once  more  before  I  go. 
I  expect  to  leave  here  any  day  now,  but  I  am  only 
going  as  far  as  the  Old  Lake  Post.  My  cousins  will 
meet  me  there." 

"I  will  go,  yes;  but  you,  why  must  you  leave?" 

"I  want  to  see  the  trading  post,  because  my  mother 
visited  there  with  her  mother  when  she  was  a  young 
girl ;  my  grandmother  was  the  trader's  sister." 

"Then  you  belong  here;  you  must  not  leave  us. 
My  children  will  miss  you  —  and  the  cakes,"  she 
added,  her  gentle  brown  eyes  fixed  on  her  guest  with 
something  like  adoration. 

"I  expect  we  shall  all  be  back  again  in  a  few  weeks, 
and  then  —  who  knows  but  I  may  decide  to  stay 
here  for  a  while?  I  can  do  so  if  I  choose.  And  I 
like  to  be  here  with  you  and  yours.  I  would  like 
to  see  your  husband  too." 

"I  want  you  to  stay,  but  the  winter  is  so  cold 
here  —  not  like  the  Turtle  Mountains  where  we 
lived;  can  you  bear  it?" 

"Oh,  any  amount  of  cold  weather  in  such  a  climate 
as  this." 

"My  little  one,  who  is  coming,  I  call  him  my  snow- 
bird, for  he  comes  in  the  deep  of  winter ;  my  two 
girls  come  in  summer ;  but  a  boy,  you  know,  he  can 
bear  cold  like  his  father." 

"You  seem  very  sure  of  this  little  son  of  yours, 
Mrs.  McGillie." 

"Yes,  this  time  I  am  sure;   I  have  a  charm  for  a 


234  Out  of  the  Silences 

son."  Alison  looked  at  her  inquiringly.  Kinni- 
kinnik  nodded  assurance. 

"Yes;  it  belongs  to  a  wise  woman  of  my  tribe; 
she  lives  on  the  reservation;  she  is  not  from  the 
Turtle  Mountains.  She  gives  it  to  me.  I  cannot 
tell  you  about  it;  then  it  would  not  work.  But 
I  am  sure  this  time." 

"I  shall  want  to  stay  to  see  him.  What  will  you 
call  him  —  Snowbird  ?  What  is  the  Cree  for  that  ?  " 

Kinni-kinnik  smiled,  showing  both  sets  of  her  still 
white  and  even  teeth. 

"No,  that  is  my  name  for  him  before  he  comes. 
When  he  is  on  earth  he  gets  another.  He  will  be 
christened  — " 

"  Christened  ?  I  thought  you  said  something  about 
a  charm."  Alison  failed  to  sound  the  Indian  mind 
at  that  moment.  Kinni-kinnik  enlightened  her. 

"Yes,  he  will  be  christened  in  the  church.  They 
have  a  silver  bowl,  an'  water  will  be  put  on  his 
head.  They  warm  it  —  an'  it  makes  me  laugh 
that  they  think  an  Indian  man-child  should  fear  a 
little  cold  water.  An'  I  belong  to  that  church;  it 
was  my  husband's  wish.  But  the  Indian  heart  does 
not  forget.  I  remember  what  I  am,  what  my  fathers 
were ;  an'  when  the  white  man's  prayers,  that  they 
have  taught  me,  do  not  bring  what  I  want  most  — • 
a  little  son  —  I  go  to  follow  the  paths  of  my  fathers 
and  pray  Indian-way  for  a  boy,  pray  with  the  charm 
I  wear  on  my  left  breast.  It  is  here,"  she  said, 
laying  her  hand  over  her  heart;  "I  dare  not  show 
it  to  you.  It  comforts  me;  it  will  bring  me  my 
son." 

"And  what  will  he  be  christened?" 

"Robert  Collamore  McGillie;    it  is  the  name  of 


At  the  New  Mission  235 

my  husband's  blood-brother.  He  was  a  white  boy 
in  the  Turtle  Mountains ;  we  all  knew  him,  my 
mother  an'  father,  an'  the  medicine-man,  an'  old 
Flying  Loon,  his  sister,  an'  my  two  brothers  —  they 
will  team  for  the  loggers  this  year  —  all  loved  him." 

It  seemed  to  Alison  Doane,  on  hearing  this  name 
from  the  Indian  woman's  lips,  as  if  the  trail  of  the 
boy  she  had  never  forgotten  was  over  all  this  north 
land.  She  was  glad  to  be  following  it.  It  renewed 
her  youth,  brought  back  the  joyous  days  of  her 
girlhood.  But  it  was  no  time  to  tell  the  Indian 
woman  of  her  slight  connection  with  that  boy; 
this  could  well  wait. 

"I  do  not  know;  but  we  shall  see  him  soon.  My 
husband  sent  me  the  card;  read  it."  She  handed 
her  a  postcard  that  lay  on  the  kitchen  table.  "It 
come  from  Winnipegosis,  see?  It  come  yesterday." 

Alison  read  it.  "'Me  and  Bob  leave  next  week  for 
home.  Tell  Carmastic,  Chum,  and  the  boys.'" 

"Our  medicine-man  calls  a  council,  Colin  has  told 
me ;  an'  my  husband,  an'  my  people,  an'  Little  Owl 
will  be  there  —  we  called  him  that  in  the  mountain. 
Carmastic  calls  them.  Colin  sent  the  word  to  Little 
Owl." 

"What  is  it  all  about,  do  you  know?"  Alison 
Doane's  interest  in  these  people  of  another  race 
was  increasing  with  every  word  Kinni-kinnik  spoke, 
and  she  spoke  directly  to  the  point. 

Kinni-kinnik  shook  her  head.  "No.  Indian 
women  do  not  sit  in  council  with  their  men.  I 
am  told  it  is  the  white  woman's  custom ;  my  girls 
tell  me  it  is  so  —  they  hear  it  in  the  school.  Bob- 
Little  Owl  was  here  once  in  all  these  many  summers 
and  winters.  His  coming  makes  us  glad." 


236  Out  of  the  Silences 

"He  must  have  been  a  very  bright  and  lovable 
boy,  Mrs.  McGillie.  Mr.  Plunket  told  me  about 
that  same  boy  and  his  friends;  he  said  all  of  you 
loved  him." 

The  expression  of  Kinni-kinnik's  face  was  thought- 
ful. A  look  of  gentle  patience  came  into  her  brown 
eyes. 

"Yes,  we  loved  him.  I  loved  him.  You  see  the 
little  burning  cloud  that  falls  down  the  sky  at  night? 
One  fell  last  night.  It  made  a  fire-path  in  the  sky ; 
they  fall  fast  in  this  month.  I  see  it  —  how  do 
you  call  it?  Colin  told  me;  I  forget." 

"  Shooting  star  —  meteor  ?  " 

"That  is  it.  He  come  like  that  in  my  life  on  the 
mountain,  an'  like  that  he  has  went.  I  loved  him ; 
by  the  custom  of  my  people  I  would  have  went  with 
him;  he  did  not  want  me.  I  would  have  worked 
for  him,  cooked  for  him,  cared  for  him,  as  a  good 
squaw  cares.  He  wanted  nothing  of  me.  I  love 
him  always  —  not  as  I  love  my  husband ;  I  am  now 
your  white  way  married  to  Colin.  But  my  heart 
tells  me  I  was  young  when  he  was  young.  I  would 
have  followed  him  into  all  the  lands  my  girls  tell  me 
about ;  it  is  the  custom  of  my  people.  If  he  had  left 
me  for  a  white  woman,  —  like  my  Aunt  Jane  thought 
the  saddle-maker  in  the  mountain  left  her,  an'  that 
Little  Owl  was  the  white  woman's  son,  —  I  would  do 
what  my  aunt  done  by  the  saddle-maker :  I  would 
took  the  children  he  give  me,  an'  left  him ;  never 
trobbled  him  —  no,  never.  Yes,  my  children  I 
would  took  with  me,  but  my  love  for  him  I  could 
not  take  from  him.  It  was  not  mine  to  take.  It  was 
his." 

Alison  listened  in  amazement  at  this  revelation 


At  the  New  Mission  237 

of  a  child-love  persisting  as  a  woman's  in  the  mind 
of  this  Indian  wife  and  mother. 

"How  old  were  you,  Mrs.  McGillie,  when — " 

Kinni-kinnik  interrupted  her.  "Call  me  Kinni- 
kinnik ;  they  all  do  call  me  that,"  she  said  with  the 
winning  smile  that  once  caught  little  Bob  Colla- 
more's  lonely  boy-heart  with  its  charm. 

"And  what  will  you  call  me  then,  Kinni-kinnik? 
I  have  always  wanted  to  call  you  that,  because  you 
have  always  been  spoken  of  by  that  name  to  me." 

Kinni-kinnik  looked  at  her  shyly,  but  hesitated 
to  speak.  In  her  eyes  this  white  woman  was  beau- 
tiful, dark-haired,  and  so  clear-skinned,  so  blue- 
eyed,  so  gentle  in  her  ways,  so  merry  at  times,  — 
she  laughed  like  Little  Owl,  she  told  herself,  —  so 
interested  in  her  and  hers.  Dared  she  call  her  by 
the  name  by  which  she  was  already  known  on  the 
reservation?  The  name  Carmastic  had  given  her 
for  her  kind  thought  of  him,  and  her  kindlier  deeds 
to  ease  his  aching  old  hips  and  shoulders? 

"Carmastic  calls  you  'Manedo-wea.'     I  want  to." 

"What  does  it  mean?  Something  nice  like  your 
name?" 

"  It  means  '  spirit  woman ',  an'  that  means  '  medicine- 
woman' —  I  do  not  know  how  to  say  it  clear.  I 
could  in  my  own  tongue." 

"I,  'medicine -woman'?"  Alison  spoke  incredu- 
lously. "Why,  it's  only  because  I  bought  some 
salve  at  the  shop ;  it  is  so  good  for  his  aches  and 
pains,  his  rheumatism  and  sciatica.  He  suffers  from 
those.  He  won't  let  a  doctor  touch  him,  they  say." 

"No.  He  believes  in  the  'medicine'  of  his  tribe. 
It  wasn't  all  that,  the  medicine  you  gave  him,  that 
helped  him.  It  was  your  shell.  It  is  the  sacred 


238  Out  of  the  Silences 

shell.  Carmastic  tells  his  grandson's  wife,  an'  she 
tells  me.  She  said,  he  said  that  by  that  sign  he 
knows  you.  You  can  do  anything  for  him.  He  says 
you  are  his  mother  come  back  to  help  him." 

"Do  you  mean  the  shell  I  wore  the  first  time  we 
went  over  to  the  reservation,  the  big  one  I  looped 
both  ends  of  the  sash  of  my  sweater  through  —  so?" 
She  went  through  the  motion  with  her  hands. 

"That  is  it.  It  is  the  sacred  shell  of  the  medicine 
woman.  He  said  his  mother  had  one  like  it.  She 
was  great  medicine-woman." 

"Manedo-wea."  Alison  repeated  it  to  herself, 
her  voice  dwelling  on  the  name.  Hearing  her, 
Kinni-kinnik  showed  unmistakable  delight. 

"You  will  soon  speak  our  tongue,  Manedo-wea; 
then  you  will  be  one  of  us,  as  Little  Owl  is." 

"I  am  sure  he  is  one  of  you  from  all  you  have 
said,  Kinni-kinnik.  I  am  so  glad  we  have  had  this 
talk  together.  I  shall  take  the  memory  of  it  with 
me  on  my  journey." 

"If  you  see  him  you  will  know  I  speak  truth. 
Colin  will  tell  you  so.  And  Stella  Plunket  knows  I 
speak  truth  from  my  heart.  She  loved  the  white 
man  —  not  the  boy,  she  did  not  know  him.  He 
is  kind  to  her.  She  is  what  you  call  his  'care.'  But 
he  does  not  love  her.  She  is  nothing  to  him.  She 
feels  as  I  used  to  feel.  We  have  spoken  together. 
I  tell  her  when  she  is  married  an'  her  child  tugs  at 
her  breast,  she  will  be  whole  as  I  am  whole.  But 
she  cannot  forget." 

Alison  Doane  rose.  She  had  heard  enough.  She 
was  beginning  to  understand  something  of  the  tragedy 
of  a  woman's  life  through  love,  whether  white  woman, 
red,  or  half-breed.  It  was  tune  to  go. 


At  the  New  Mission  239 

"  Kinm-kinnik,  you  are  such  a  rich  woman,  rich 
in  your  children  and  your  husband,  and  in  all  the 
memories  of  true  love  —  I  envy  you." 

It  was  the  Indian  woman's  turn  to  look  amazed. 

"Sometime  I  will  tell  you  my  little  story.  It  is 
about  a  long,  long  trail,  and  how  I  found  it  here  in 
this  north  country  —  Be  sure  to  meet  me  at  the 
station  to-morrow  by  ten,  won't  you?  We  will 
spend  the  day  with  Carmastic,  and  his  grandson's 
wife  and  her  darling  little  pappooses.  Don't  take 
any  food  with  you.  I'm  going  to  have  a  party  of 
my  own,  what  we  Americans  call  a  'surprise  party', 
in  the  old  man's  wigwam.  Good-by."  She  turned 
at  the  gate  to  wave  her  hand  to  Eanni-kinnik  in  the 
door. 

The  Indian  woman  looked  puzzled ;  for  the  moment 
it  was  as  if  she  were  back  again  in  her  childhood,  hear- 
ing that  same  clear-ringing  voice  calling :  "  Good-by." 

In  her  sudden  confusion  of  thought  she  gave  no 
answering  "good-by";  but  she  murmured  lovingly, 
"Manedo-wea." 


Ill 

THE   MAN 


m 

THE  MAN 

SUMMONED 
i 

BOB  COLLAMORE,  or  Robert  Collamore  as  he  felt 
privileged  to  sign  himself  after  his  full-fledged  inde- 
pendence, went  forth  from  the  mountains  a  man- 
boy,  indomitable  of  will,  imbued  with  the  symbolism 
and  nature  worship  of  the  Indians,  eager  for  the  new, 
the  strange,  and,  like  most  boys  of  his  age,  uncertain 
of  purpose. 

He  was  old  for  his  years,  this  man-boy;  old  in 
mind  although  that  mind  had  come  in  contact  with 
no  book  worth  reading  other  than  the  Book.  He 
had  suffered  bitter  hardship  when  he  was  very  young. 
He  had  lived  with  the  saddle-maker;  he  had  lived 
in  his  lean-to  —  and  yet  not  lived  because  of  the  sordid 
environment  of  the  squaw's  housekeeping.  He  was 
courageous,  sensitive,  responsive  to  what  was  fine, 
—  his  uncle's  deed  always  in  his  memory,  —  and 
to  the  good  exemplified  in  the  saddle-maker  and 
the  Indians.  His  sympathies  were  both  keen  and 
quick.  He  was  ready  to  succor  man  or  animal.  He 
was  imitative,  taking  surface  color  from  his  sur- 
roundings; enthusiastic,  trustful,  except  in  a  pony 
trade;  but  determined  to  yield  to  no  one,  to  sweep 
whatever  balked  him  or  his  will  out  of  his  path,  and 

243 


244  Out  of  the  Silences 

set  upon  seeing  the  world  as  he  might  choose  to  see 
it.     Such  was  the  man-boy  at  fifteen. 

2 

From  fifteen  to  thirty  every  man's  life  has  its 
primitive  needs  and  the  essential  potentialities  to 
meet  them.  How  they  are  met  during  this  period 
depends  on  the  particular  make-up  of  the  individual : 
his  temperament,  —  to  define  it  more  accurately 
something  which  is  in  part  his  inheritance,  —  and 
on  his  environment. 

Intricately  interwoven  with  this  fact  of  the  neces- 
sary sustenance  of  the  body,  are  the  desires,  the  ambi- 
tions, varying  as  to  time  and  place.  These  in  the 
course  of  years  may  or  may  not  become,  according  to 
will  and  circumstances,  a  set  purpose. 

These  shuttles  of  will  and  circumstance  ply  back 
and  forth,  shifting  at  times,  but  always  carrying  the 
threads  in  and  out  of  the  living  warp.  During  this 
process,  it  may  be  that  for  many  years  no  hint  of 
the  pattern  can  be  gained.  When,  however,  the 
interwoven  threads  of  will,  circumstance,  and 
their  resulting  ambitions,  purposes,  deeds,  begin  to 
show  a  design,  then  it  is  that  a  thinking  man 
becomes  aware,  although  dimly  and  at  inter- 
vals, of  a  certain  spiritual  force  controlling  all 
these  workings  and  weavings  towards  prescribed 
accomplishment. 

Here  he  sees  a  thread  of  good  fortune;  there  he 
finds  a  thrum  of  mischance.  At  times  he  may  note 
the  introduction  of  colors,  some  bright,  others  neutral ; 
many,  dark  and  sombre,  the  result  of  changing  en- 
vironment or  of  varying  mental  conditions.  He 
finds,  on  scrutiny,  the  use  of  coarse  threads,  fine 
threads,  smooth  surfaces,  rough  surfaces,  here  and 


The  Man  245 

there,  it  may  be,  a  knot  or  two  —  all  factors  of  the 
design  he  glimpses  throughout  the  warp. 

As  he  approaches  thirty  he  begins  to  realize  that 
somehow,  in  some  way  unknown  to  him,  that  to 
which  his  spiritual  nature  responds,  in  other  words 
his  ideal,  is  the  force  that  controls  his  life  lines. 
Recognizing  this,  his  life  and  all  other  lives  assume 
a  different  aspect  in  his  eyec.  His  outlook  broadens ; 
his  insight  deepens.  His  recognition  of  life's  mean- 
ing becomes  fuller.  His  duty  to  his  kind  defines 
itself  more  sharply;  it  is  more  readily  undertaken. 
He  advances  with  firmer  tread,  clearer  vision,  along 
the  path  of  life. 

And  what  of  the  twistings  and  turnings,  the  blind 
out-reachings,  the  stumblings?  What  of  the  failure 
to  read  the  trail  signs,  the  pitfalls,  the  man  traps? 
What  of  the  seeking  and  not  finding?  The  losing  of 
the  trail  for  a  time,  almost  to  the  losing  of  life  itself, 
by  following  its  deflections  too  far:  its  trials,  its 
hardships,  its  temptations? 

It  is  best  not  to  follow  a  man's  way  on  the  path  of 
life  too  closely.  It  is  not  wise  to  scrutinize  his 
course  too  minutely.  Life  is  life,  and  its  trail  never 
an  easy  one  to  follow.  Men  are  but  human,  or  they 
would  not  be  following  this  trail;  and  humankind, 
in  its  strength  as  in  its  frailty,  is  what  it  was,  is,  and . 
always  will  be. 

3 

When  after  twenty-one  years  of  absence  from  the 
mountains  Robert  Collamore  revisited  them,  he  re- 
turned to  the  region  a  boy-man. 

He  was  unbroken  physically  by  the  hardships  he 
endured  during  the  establishment  of  himself  on  a 
living  basis.  The  great  northern  wheat  fields  at 


246  Out  of  the  Silences 

seed  time  and  harvest,  the  dusty  arid  plains,  the 
high  cattle  range,  the  forests  in  the  south  and  north, 
desert  sands,  the  ice  and  snow  of  the  Yukon  —  all 
these  places  knew  him  and  he  knew  them. 

Hardened  he  was,  on  the  surface  at  least,  by 
contact  with  thousands  of  men  and  women  in  diverse 
walks  of  life;  touched  at  times  by  the  lure  of  the 
cities ;  cautiously  untrustful  rather  than  mistrustful ; 
still  wilful.  His  sympathies,  however,  were  but  the 
more  quickened  with  the  years;  his  readiness  to 
succor,  to  relieve  distress,  the  more  spontaneous. 
And  still  at  heart,  and  in  his  love  for  the  wide  spaces 
and  lonely  trails  of  the  great  Out-of-doors,  he  was  a 
true  Son  of  the  Silent  Places. 

4 

He  was  thinking  over  the  many  changes  in  the 
region  and  its  people,  as  he  rode  over  the  rolling 
country  that,  on  the  Dakota  side,  forms  the  approach 
to  the  Turtle  Mountains. 

When  he  left  this  hill  country  that  day  in  August, 
twenty-one  years  before,  —  looking  back  for  a  fare- 
well wave  of  his  hand  to  the  hilltop  where  the  Indians, 
who  had  accompanied  him  a  half  day's  journey,  sat 
motionless  on  their  ponies,  silhouetted  black  against 
a  deep  red  August  sunset,  —  he  made  his  way  east- 
wards into  Dakota.  He  stopped  at  the  first  solitary 
farm  with  a  big  acreage  of  golden  wheat  ready  for 
the  harvest,  and  asked  for  work. 

His  muscles  ached  again  in  sympathy  at  the 
remembrance  of  the  tough,  back-breaking,  unac- 
customed labor  for  those  weeks  in  which  he  "hired 
out."  He  thrust  his  hand  into  his  trousers  pocket 
to  jingle  some  loose  silver  in  its  depths,  and  smiled  at 
the  sound.  He  was  recalling  how  good  those  first 


The  Man  247 

hard  dollars,  the  wages  for  eight  weeks'  work  from 
sun-up  to  sun-down,  sounded  to  him  when,  to  test 
their  genuineness,  he  rang  them  one  by  one  on  a 
whetstone.  Eighty-six  dollars,  separate  silver  dollars 
in  good  United  States  coin.  He  had  asked  to  be 
paid  in  that  way ;  and  these  were  all  his  own ! 
Never  since  had  he  felt  such  a  suffocating  joy 
of  possession. 

He  was  thinking  of  what  he  had  seen  on  the  way 
hither :  farms  here,  farms  there,  houses,  barns, 
elevators,  cattle,  and  horses.  In  the  distance  he 
heard  the  faint  shrill  whistle  of  an  engine  heralding 
an  approaching  train. 

As  he  neared  the  rough  wooded  land,  the  scene 
of  his  old-time  haunts,  he  perceived  this  so-called 
Turtle  Mountain  region  to  be  what  in  reality  it  is : 
an  elevation  of  the  plains,  which  themselves  lie 
fifteen  hundred  feet  above  sea  level,  the  "mountain" 
rising  from  two  to  six  hundred  feet  above  them. 

He  was  on  his  way  north  into  Manitoba ;  and  he 
was  going  to  reach  it  in  these  days  of  rapid  travel  in 
his  own  indirect  way.  He  knew  what  lay  on  that 
northward  stretch  of  partial  wilderness  into  the  region 
of  the  great  Fur  Company's  hunters  and  trappers 
and,  in  the  immediate  future,  of  prospectors,  and 
homesteaders.  He  knew  that  a  few  years  would  in 
all  probability  change  the  face  of  that  northern 
wilderness.  He  wanted  to  see  it  once  again  before 
any  of  the  familiar  features  should  have  undergone 
a  transformation,  or  been  obliterated  by  blasting, 
digging,  or  scarring  through  denudation  of  its  great 
pulp  forests  by  fire  or  the  hand  of  man.  He  wanted, 
also,  to  see  his  Indians  in  that  north  land.  They 
had  sent  for  him  to  hold  council  with  them,  about 


248  Out  of  the  Silences 

what  he  had  no  knowledge;  but  it  was  important, 
so  McGillie  wrote. 

He  knew  that  country  northwards.  He  could  see  it 
in  his  mind's  eye  as  he  rode  slowly  over  the  old  south 
trail  by  which  as  a  boy  he  had  entered  the  mountains 
for  the  first  time.  He  saw  this  Turtle  Mountain, 
this  stronghold  of  the  old-time  Crees,  signalling 
straight  away  to  Riding  Mountain;  and  Riding 
Mountain  passing  on  that  signal  to  Duck,  and  Duck 
to  Porcupine,  the  intervening  distance  from  each 
mountain  station  to  the  next  averaging  sixty  to  a 
hundred  and  twenty  miles  and  all  four  wooded  to 
the  summits  —  these  isolated  mountain  videttes  for 
the  vast  plains  of  Saskatchewan. 

He  intended  to  see  them  all  and  very  soon  —  only 
from  a  distance,  over  the  low  shores  of  the  great 
Northern  Lakes,  Manitoba  —  the  Strait  of  God  — 
and  Winnipegosis,  the  Little  Sea,  in  contradistinction 
to  Winnipeg,  the  Great  Sea.  But  first,  he  must  see 
this  land  of  his  boyhood,  of  Chum,  and  Car-mastic, 
Kinni-kinnik  and  her  brothers.  He  wanted  to  take 
news  of  it  to  all  of  them  at  the  New  Mission. 

As  he  rode  on  farther  into  the  mountain  proper, 
over  which  runs  the  boundary  line  dividing  his  own 
land  from  the  Canadian,  he  found  his  interest  in 
the  surroundings  diminishing.  He  was  almost  on 
the  point  of  wishing  he  had  not  revisited  the  place, 
so  changed  it  was  from  what  he  had  known  it  to  be. 
Forest  fires  running  wild  over  the  mountain  district 
had  wrought  havoc  among  the  fine  big  timber.  A 
dense  young  growth,  mainly  aspen,  poplar,  and 
birch,  stood  in  its  place.  He  saw  the  brules  covered 
knee-deep  with  pea  vines  and  vetches.  He  noted 
the  unwarrantable  height  of  the  tall  stumps  left 


The  Man  249 

standing  to  rot,  an  evidence  in  his  experienced  eyes 
of  the  great  waste  of  this  precious  timber  in  a  bare 
prairie  country. 

He  drew  rein  as  he  was  about  to  pass  the  old 
"spring- trail."  The  oak  coppice  where  he  had 
played  his  joke  on  McGillie  and  the  Indians  was 
gone,  in  all  probability  taken  for  posts.  He  rode 
on  to  the  hut. 

There  was  little  left  of  what  was  around  it.  The 
big  timber  at  the  entrance  to  the  north  trail  was 
gone;  a  dense  stand  of  aspen  had  taken  its  place. 
The  roomy  hut,  for  so  many  years  the  squatter's 
home,  now  open  to  wind  and  weather,  had  evidently 
been  used  for  years  by  men  on  the  trail.  The  ele- 
ments had  done  their  work :  windowless,  doorless, 
the  roof  fallen  in,  crushed  by  twenty-one  winters 
of  snows,  the  sills  rotting  —  it  made  him  homesick, 
this  man  who  might  in  truth  have  said,  "Whereso- 
ever my  horse  roams,  there  is  my  home." 

Of  the  roomier  shed  only  the  ridgepole,  a  few 
rafters,  and  uprights  remained.  The  boards  had 
long  since  been  taken  by  any  one  who  could  use 
them. 

His  own  little  lean-to  of  logs,  the  chimney  de- 
spoiled of  much  stone,  its  plank  door  unhinged,  its 
chinks  open  to  rain  and  snow,  still  stood  there  as  a 
welcome.  The  boards  on  the  shed  next  the  lean-to 
had  been  left  untouched.  He  entered  it. 

Very  evidently  the  chance  passer  on  the  trail  had 
used  it  all  these  years  to  bunk  in,  for  his  bunk  was 
still  filled  with  a  mass  of  blackened  hay  and  mouldy 
straw.  Acting  on  impulse  he  began  to  toss  the  rotting 
mass  out  of  the  doorway.  No  man  coming  over  the 
trail  should  find  so  uninviting  a  bed  in  his  old  lean-to ! 


250  Out  of  the  Silences 

Beneath  the  hay  and  straw  was  a  layer  of  canvas, 
the  flap  of  a  tent  which  some  earlier  cave-man  had 
used  to  soften  the  boards  or  keep  him  warm;  it, 
likewise,  was  black  and  rotten.  He  took  it  out.  A 
sickening  smell  of  must  rose  from  the  damp  decay 
of  the  boards  beneath.  He  was  about  to  fling  it 
out  after  the  hay  and  straw,  when  he  was  aware  of 
some  paper  sticking  to  the  bottom.  He  shook  it 
free  of  the  canvas ;  it  fell  in  pieces.  Then  he  threw 
out  the  tent  flap,  and  picking  up  the  bits  of  paper 
examined  them  carefully,  black,  sodden,  the  print 
for  the  most  part  illegible ;  only  here  and  there  he 
could  read  a  word.  And  so  reading,  the  realization 
came  to  him,  through  a  flashlight  of  memory,  that 
this  literary  derelict,  of  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century, 
was  a  fragment  of  his  own  fragmentary  Book  which 
he  had  left  without  thought  when  he  said  good-by 
to  the  mountains. 

He  sat  down  on  the  sill,  which  in  those  old  days 
had  served  for  threshold  of  his  door,  and  cautiously 
separated  some  portions  of  the  paper  that  were  ad- 
hering. Opening  them  he  found  two  sentences  of  an 
otherwise  obliterated  verse  fairly  legible : 

"Go  through  .  .  .  the  gates  .  .  .  lift  up  a  standard 
for  the  people." 

He  never  remembered  to  have  heard  or  seen  them. 
There  was  no  clue  as  to  what  book  of  his  Book  con- 
tained them,  for  all  headlines  were  wanting. 

Over  and  over  Robert  Collamore  read  those  few 
words,  and  with  each  reading  knew  that,  through 
them,  the  clear  call  had,  at  last,  come  to  him.  His 
answer  was  at  once  forthcoming ;  he  spoke  aloud : 

"I  am  ready." 

Such  was  his  consecration. 


The  Man  251 

For  more  than  a  year  he  had  waited  for  the  Land 
he  so  loved  to  "come  in",  to  take  her  place  in  the 
ranks  of  those  nations  who  were  fighting  for  their 
lives  against  a  superior  brute  force,  the  weaker  against 
the  stronger ;  waited  for  the  opportunity  to  join  up 
with  his  own  people  when  they  should  declare  for 
justice  and  humanity,  and  back  up  their  words  with 
deeds  —  hot  shot  rather  than  blank  cartridges ; 
waited  for  her  to  put  her  strong  young  shoulders 
under  a  breaking  Old  World  apparently  in  extremis. 
Thus  far,  he  had  waited  in  vain. 

He  undertook  this  journey  through  the  mountains 
and  into  Canada,  with  a  half-defined  purpose  in 
mind  to  join  up  with  the  Canadian  forces  at  the 
earliest  moment  compatible  with  keeping  a  certain 
business  promise,  made  to  a  man  two  years  before; 
that  fulfilled,  he  would  go. 

He  separated  the  few  words  from  then-  stained, 
unreadable  setting,  and  placed  the  bit  of  paper 
carefully  in  his  pocket  book.  Then  he  mounted  his 
horse  and  rode  rapidly  on  over  the  north  trail,  where 
the  great  sycamore's  stump  told  its  own  tale ;  along 
the  bluff,  down  into  the  little  valley,  up  the  hill, 
across  the  clearing  to  the  spot  on  which  Carmastic 
had  shown  him  the  Path  of  Life.  He  knew  now 
whither  it  led.  .  . 

5 

He  rode  on  down  by  the  lakes  where  he  saw 
the  summer  campers'  sites,  the  newly  made  trails  \ 
he  found  even  a  stretch  of  motor  service  —  and 
this  in  his  wilderness  of  twenty-one  years  gone ! 
Farther  and  farther  he  rode  on,  all  adown  the  rolling 
flanks  of  the  mountain  rich  in  homesteads  and  farms 
watered  from  those  same  slopes ;  and  still  onward  to 


252  Out  of  the  Silences 

Deloraine  where  he  and  his  tired  horse  put  up  for 
the  night. 

THE  COUNCIL 
i 

Colin  Me  Gillie  and  Robert  Collamore  met  by 
appointment  in  the  wilderness  of  woods  and  waters 
we  name  Lake  Manitoba,  Waterhen  River,  Lake 
Winnipegosis,  Mossy  Portage,  Cedar  Lake,  and  their 
shores,  inlets,  and  islands.  It  was  a  good  joy  for 
them  both,  this  reliving  together  something  of  the 
old  Turtle  Mountain  life  of  their  boyhood  in  this 
northern  and  vaster  extent  of  country  where  game 
and  fish  abound,  and  they  could  live  from  day  to 
day  dependent  only  on  rod  and  rifle. 

The  weather  was  glorious :  keen,  frosty  nights, 
ice  rimming  the  shores,  followed  by  halcyon  days, 
the  cold  tonic  air  tempered  with  the  warm  sun  of  a 
mellow  October.  At  night  the  camp  was  pitched 
on  the  shore  of  Manitoba,  "Strait  of  God",  a  fringe 
of  birch  and  aspen  to  shelter  it ;  or  on  one  of  the 
many  islands  on  the  broad  expanse  of  the  Little  Sea, 
Lake  Winnipegosis,  where  a  driftwood  fire  sent  wild 
shadows  scouting  among  the  dark  spruce  tops. 

Robert  Collamore's  desire  was  fulfilled :  above  the 
western  shores  of  Manitoba  and  Winnipegosis,  as 
the  canoe  sped  northward,  he  saw  far  away  across 
swamp  and  forest  the  "mountains"  of  the  Saskatche- 
wan plain  and  in  succession  —  Riding,  Duck,  Porcu- 
pine. 

During  these  days  and  nights  with  his  friend,  Colin 
McGillie  dropped  twenty  years  of  care  from  his 
sturdy  shoulders  as  the  two  talked  of  old  times ; 
laughed  again  over  their  fight  for  Kinni-kinnik ; 
again  cursed  Jane's  "jawin'"  that  still  galled  their 


The  Man  253 

saddle-maker  in  his  matrimonial  harness.  They 
spoke  of  his  goodness  to  them,  his  love  for  them, 
but,  being  undemonstrative  men,  said  nothing  of 
their  love  for  him  which  could  not  change.  Then, 
as  earnest  men  putting  aside  childish  things,  they 
talked  of  the  war,  and  Collamore  spoke  of  his 
decision.  • ! 

McGillie  made  no  reply;  he  was  taking  it  all  in 
slowly.  Bob  knew  he  would  hear  from  him  on  the 
subject  sometime  when  his  slow-working  mind  should 
be  geared  to  this  fact.  M 

With  a  feeler  out  for  the  nightly  lowering  tempera- 
ture and  an  eye  to  the  rapidly  making  ice,  which 
the  rays  of  the  southward-racing  sun  failed  to  melt, 
they  made  their  way  back  to  a  station  near  Winnipe- 
gosis.  Here  Colin  took  train  for  Groundhouse.  He 
carried  with  him  a  promise  from  Bob  that  he  would 
see  him  again  within  two  weeks  for  the  council  at  the 
reservation  there. 

Collamore  went  on  to  Winnipeg  where  forwarded 
mail  was  awaiting  him.  It  was  here  he  found  the 
letters  and  telegrams  from  the  company  whose 
advice  Mr.  Carrolly  was  anticipating,  in  the  hope 
it  might  clear  the  muddled  prospect  for  the  set- 
ting up  of  the  new  mills  within  the  next  six  months. 
2 

It  was  a  council  of  Crees,  for  the  one  white  man, 
Little  Owl,  had  grown  up  among  them,  speaking 
their  language,  learning  their  ways,  sometimes  think- 
ing their  thoughts,  writing  letters  for  them  in  their 
efforts  to  retain  their  old  home  in  the  mountains, 
efforts  that  were  brought  to  naught  because  of  the 
inexorable  march  of  progress.  They  counted  him 
as  one  of  themselves.  McGillie  was,  of  course,  part 


254  Out  of  the  Silences 

Cree.     All  invited  to  the  council  were  friends  and 
brothers. 

When  Collamore  and  Me  Gillie  reached  the  reser- 
vation, they  found  the  Indians  assembled  and  wait- 
ing for  them.  It  was  a  heartening  welcome  they 
gave  to  Robert  Collamore,  whom  they  had  not  seen 
for  ten  years,  and  a  genuine  one. 
1  They  went  at  once  to  their  medicine-man's  wigwam. 
It  was  large,  covered  with  skins  to  protect  it  from 
the  cold.  Beside  it  stood  Chum's  house,  a  rambling 
affair  of  logs,  boards,  shingles,  and  bark,  which 
Carmastic  could  not  be  induced  to  occupy.  He 
was  of  the  "old  order."  A  light  snow  covered  the 
ground.  Smoke  was  ascending  from  the  opening 
at  the  top  of  the  tepee,  rising  straight  upwards  in  the 
still  air.  A  good  fire  was  in  progress  as  the  men 
entered.  •*>*, 

They  found  Carmastic,  in  a  new  blanket,  seated 
before  it,  tending  it  with  little  sticks  he  had  cut  for 
this  special  occasion.  He  was  feeble,  worn  with 
the  years ;  but  he  lifted  his  hand  with  a  quick  move- 
ment towards  Collamore  as  he  entered. 

"How,  Little  Owl."     His  voice  was  still  resonant. 

"How,  Carmastic!"    The  two  clasped  hands. 

The  few  words  of  greeting  took  Collamore  back 
over  memory's  long  trail  to  their  first  meeting  in 
the  clearing.  Carmastic's  second  act  brought  a 
smile  to  his  face.  He  knew  he  must  not  laugh,  for 
the  occasion  was  evidently  too  solemn  although  he 
had  no  idea  of  its  import;  that  was  for  Carmastic 
to  reveal.  The  old  Indian  handed  him  the  famous 
peace  pipe  which  they  had  smoked  together  when 
the  reconciliation  concerning  the  pony  took  place 
—  more  than  twenty  years  ago. 


The  Man  255 

The  Indians  seated  themselves  around  the  fire; 
some  few,  however,  were  standing,  and  all  crowding 
the  wigwam  to  its  capacity.  Collamore  sat  between 
Carmastic  and  Chum,  his  boyhood  intimate;  Mc- 
Gillie  opposite  with  Kinni-kinnik's  brothers. 

For  a  while  they  smoked  in  silence,  the  pipe  passing 
from  one  to  the  other.  Then  the  famous  pipe  was 
laid  aside,  and  Carmastic,  wrapping  his  new  blanket 
closely  about  him,  folded  his  arms,  hugging  himself 
as  if  cold,  and  spoke  to  them.  His  voice  was  still 
strong,  but  his  teeth  were  gone  and  the  lack  of  them 
interfered  at  times  with  his  speech.  Now  and  then 
he  hesitated  as  if  to  make  sure  of  his  words. 

"My  children,  we  have  smoked  the  peace  pipe; 
but  only  as  a  memory  of  peace.  I  am  told  there  is 
no  more  peace  on  this  earth.  In  my  old  age  I  have 
had  a  vision.  I  have  looked  into  the  future  years 
as  we  raise  the  flap  of  the  wigwam  on  a  strange  trail, 
to  peer  in  through  smoke  of  fire  with  dim  eyes. 
What  I  saw  I  tell  to  you ;  then  we  will  hold  council, 
for  the  vision  leads  to  the  warpath." 

The  Indians  stirred  slightly.  The  old  way  of 
their  fathers  and  fathers'  fathers  was  beginning  to 
lay  its  spell  upon  them  through  the  old  man's  solem- 
nity of  speech. 

"I  saw,  in  the  night,  fire  on  Porcupine  Mountain. 
A  spark  from  the  fire,  passing  through  the  night, 
caught  on  Duck.  I  saw  the  two  fires  on  the  two 
mountains.  The  sparks  from  Duck  carried  a  fire- 
trail  to  the  south,  to  Riding  Mountain,  to  Turtle 
Mountain;  they  flamed  like  dry  pine  trees  burning 
in  the  night.  I  saw  the  four  fires  on  the  four  moun- 
tains." 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes. 


256  Out  of  the  Silences 

"They  were  four  torches  that  signalled  west,  east, 
and  south,  to  all  the  mountains  of  the  tribes, 
Assiniboine,  Blackfoot,  Arapaho,  Sioux  —  you  know 
them  all,  and  their  mountains. 

"I  saw  the  fire-trail  of  these  sparks  sweeping  over 
these  mountains.  All  the  land  to  the  south  was 
reddened  with  the  light,  as  the  sky  grows  bright 
with  the  dancing  fires  in  the  north.  But  no  spark 
caught  on  the  mountains;  with  the  passing  of  the 
fire-trail  that  land  to  the  south  grew  dark  again. 

"My  children,  the  vision  was  a  war  vision.  We 
hold  council  to  find  its  meaning." 

He  took  the  pipe,  smoked  in  silence  and  passed  it 
to  the  others.  When  it  had  gone  the  rounds,  Kinni- 
kinnik's  father,  the  tribal  orator,  spoke  with  eloquence : 

"You  say  well,  Carmastic,  there  is  no  peace  on 
earth.  There  is  only  war.  The  four  fires  on  the 
four  mountains  are  the  signs  of  the  four  English 
peoples  dwelling  in  their  lands  —  Canada,  the  Mother- 
island  across  the  great  water,  the  Mother-island's 
children-islands  far  distant  in  other  waters.  The 
great  English  tribes  are  following  the  world  war- 
path that  is  reddened  with  the  blood  of  many  races 
of  earth  children. 

"From  the  four  mountains,  the  spark-trails,  that 
sweep  southward  to  the  mountains  of  the  tribes  of 
our  former  enemies,  are  the  messages  from  the  great 
English  tribes  to  their  white  brothers  over  the  border 
to  come  and  help  them  against  their  enemies.  But 
the  great  land  to  the  south  lies  in  darkness.  No 
fire  catches  on  her  mountains,  her  plains,  in  her 
huts,  her  tepees,  her  great  council  lodges ;  nor  along 
the  banks  of  the  Father  of  Waters,  nor  on  the  shores 
of  her  big  waters  east,  west,  south. 


The  Man  257 

"The  great  land  is  dark.  Its  peoples  do  not  see 
the  spark-trails,  and  the  English  tribes  fight  in  vain ; 
their  enemy  is  too  strong;  he  is  too  many."  He 
turned  suddenly  to  Robert  Collamore. 

"Why  do  not  your  people  fight,  Little  Owl?  Why 
do  they  close  their  eyes  that  they  may  not  see  the 
fire-trails  flame  in  the  sky?  Why  do  your  white 
men  let  other  white  men  fight  for  their  brothers? 
Why  do  your  people  sit  in  safety  around  their  home 
fires,  eating,  drinking,  singing,  instead  of  taking  the 
warpath  to  avenge  the  murder  of  their  brothers' 
women  and  children  —  their  squaws,  their  babes, 
their  old  mothers  who  are  starving  in  the  harvest 
time?  Answer  for  your  people,  Little  Owl.  Tell 
us  why  your  land  is  dark,  why  no  fire  catches." 

Robert  Collamore's  head  was  bowed  in  shame,  in 
humiliation.  What  could  he  say?  How  could  he 
bear  this  thing :  the  hearing  of  such  truths  from  the 
lips  of  red  men ;  from  a  race  that  for  generations  in 
his  own  land  had  suffered,  in  part,  what  white  men 
were  now  suffering  at  the  hands  of  enemies  of  their 
own  blood;  a  race  that  had  struggled  desperately, 
fought  as  savages,  savagely,  to  avenge  itself  on  the 
white  race  that  had  repeatedly  wronged  it?  What 
could  he  say? 

He  knew  he  must  reply;  custom  demanded  it. 
He  knew  he  must  speak  the  truth  as  he  saw  it ;  noth- 
ing but  the  truth  in  the  presence  of  these  men  of 
another  race  — •  his  red  brothers  since  his  childhood. 

He  addressed  Carmastic,  looking  him  squarely  in 
the  face. 

"You  speak  truth,  Carmastic;  my  land  is  dark. 
It  has  no  vision.  It  sees  no  fire-trails  in  the  night. 
Its  people  sit  at  home,  warmed  and  fed,  seeing  only 


258  Out  of  the  Silences 

their  own  home  fires  while  abroad  in  the  earth  stalks 
the  wide-mouthed  hunger-wolf,  and  the  beasts  of 
prey,  murder,  rapine  —  and  worse  —  prowl  among 
the  ruins  of  the  white  men's  homes.  Little  children 
lifting  up  their  voices  on  the  highway,  crying  for 
bread,  are  perishing  in  their  hunger ;  the  child- 
bearing  women  are  dying  for  want  of  care  and 
nourishment."  He  turned  to  the  Indians. 

"My  red  brothers,  you  know  what  I  say  is  true, 
for  your  fathers  have  gone  through  the  same  torment 
that  your  white  brothers  are  now  enduring. 

"And  my  own  land  is  yet  dark.  It  has  no  vision, 
not  yet.  Your  vision  is  a  true  vision,  Carmastic ; 
but  your  eyes  are  dimmed,  looking  through  the  smoke 
of  the  white  man's  torment  at  the  stake.  You  could 
not  trace  each  spark  as  the  fire-trails  swept  onward 
into  the  night.  Your  sight  was  too  old  to  follow 
them.  But  I  know  that  sparks  have  fallen  from 
the  fire-trail,  a  spark  here,  a  spark  there;  and  the 
fire  has  caught  —  a  little  fire  as  yet,  a  small  running 
underbrush  fire  that  does  not  show  on  the  mountain 
for  all  to  see.  The  sparks  have  caught  in  the  hearts 
of  men,  and  set  them  aflame.  These  men  will  take 
the  warpath  to  avenge  their  white  brothers  of  the 
English  and  other  tribes.  You  will  live  to  see  the 
truth  of  my  words." 

"Name  the  other  tribes  to  us,  Little  Owl.  I 
have  heard,  but  I  cannot  remember,"  said  the  medi- 
cine-man. 

"Belgian,  French,  Russian,  Italian,  the  black  men 
from  the  deserts,  Indians  from  the  south  seas,  and 
wild  fighters,  neither  black  nor  white,  from  the  great 
plains  over  the  big  water." 

"Mgh." 


The  Man  259 

It  was  the  first  articulate  sign  of  approval  that 
the  Indians  had  given.  Hearing  it,  the  spirit  moved 
McGillie  to  slow  deliberate  speech. 

"I  and  my  blood-brother  have  been  for  three 
weeks  on  the  long  trail.  We  spoke  much  together 
of  the  great  war.  He  told  me  that  he  was  bringing 
to  Carmastic  a  message  from  Assiniboine,  Blackfoot, 
Sioux,  Chippewa,  Arapaho,  and  many  others.  They 
said  they  were  ready  to  fight  for  the  white  men  across 
the  big  water  if  the  chiefs  in  the  great  council  lodge 
at  Washington  would  let  them  go.  He  told  me  they 
wanted  to  fight  the  great  enemy  across  the  big  water 
because  he  was  doing  by  the  white  men  as  once  the 
white  men  did  by  their  fathers  and  themselves. 
They  say  they  want  to  fight  for  the  white  men  be- 
cause another  white  man  and  his  powerful  tribe 
are  wasting  the  white  men's  lands  and  killing  off 
their  tribes.  They  say  they  will  fight  because,  if 
that  Great  Enemy  Chief  and  his  tribes  are  too  strong 
for  their  white  brothers,  no  Indian  will  ever  gain 
his  freedom.  They  say  they  will  fight  to  the  death 
to  keep  their  children  and  children's  children  free 
from  the  Great  Enemy  Chief's  bondage  —  fight  for  the 
white  men's  freedom  and  by  winning  freedom  for 
them,  they  may  help  to  win  their  own."  He  paused 
a  moment. 

"I  go  to  fight  with  them,  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
whether  Assiniboine,  Sioux,  Blackfeet,  your  old 
enemies,  or  with  the  men  of  the  other  white  tribes 
—  or  with  the  Crees,  my  own  people." 

The  Indians  were  stirred  again  by  McGilhVs 
words.  They  gave  no  sign  but  their  syllable  of 
approval.  It  was,  however,  unanimous,  unmis- 
takable. 


260  Out  of  the  Silences 

"And  my  blood-brother,  Bob-Little  Owl,  goes 
with  me.  He  has  told  me  this." 

There  was  another  stir  among  the  red  men.  The 
situation  was  growing  tense.  Even  old  Carmastic's 
sharp,  wrinkled  face  took  on  the  eagle  look  of  his 
youth. 

Then  out  of  his  suppressed  excitement  Chum 
spoke  impetuously : 

"I  trap,  I  hunt,  I  fish,  I  shoot,  I  scout  and  leave 
no  mark  on  the  trail  that  an  enemy  could  find.  I 
can  run  with  the  big  runners  that  run  for  money. 

"Now  I  go  to  trap,  hunt,  bait,  scout,  shoot  the 
beasts  of  prey  —  the  men  of  that  Big  Enemy  Chief's 
tribe  that  murder  little  children,  that  starve  child- 
bearing  women,  that  burn  the  huts  and  lay  waste 
the  cornfields  that  the  hunger- wolf  may  prowl  through- 
out the  land.  McGillie  has  told  me. 

"I  will  fight  side  by  side  with  McGillie  and  Little 
Owl,  my  'brother-friend'  who  calls  me  'Chum.'  I 
will  take  the  warpath  with  white  men.  I  go  to  fight 
the  white  men's  fight  —  for  the  men  who  keep  peace 
here  in  our  land ;  who  will  not  let  my  squaw  and 
pappooses  starve;  who  will  protect  them  from  all 
harm  while  I  cross  the  big  water  to  fight  for  the 
tribes,  that  the  enemy  tribes  may  not  be  too  strong 
for  them.  I  have  said." 

A  deep  murmur  filled  the  wigwam,  increasing  to 
a  prolonged  "Mgh"  as  Kinni-kinnik's  two  brothers, 
one  after  the  other,  joined  themselves  to  the  Great 
Cause  and  gave  their  reasons  for  so  doing.  After 
them,  one  by  one,  the  sparks  caught  in  the  hearts 
of  the  younger  men  and  set  them  aflame  to  follow 
the  warpath  with  the  English  and  the  other  tribes. 

Carmastic  spoke  the  last  word : 


The  Man  261 

"I  was  glad  in  the  days  of  my  youth  because 
I  was  strong.  When  an  enemy  had  fallen  I  was 
proud  of  the  scalp  at  my  belt.  I  was  glad  when  I  re- 
turned from  the  warpath  to  my  tepee,  and  my  women, 
seeing  me  afar  off,  sang  songs  of  triumph  at  my  com- 
ing. Then  I  feasted.  I  sang  the  song  of  my  medicine 
that  all  might  hear.  I  danced  to  the  sound  of  the 
drum. 

"  To-day,  in  my  old  age,  when  my  eyes  are  dim 
and  my  hand  is  like  a  quivering  aspen  leaf,  when 
my  strength  is  the  strength  of  a  babe,  when  my  food 
is  the  food  of  babes,  and  the  meat  for  strong  men  is 
no  longer  for  me  because  I  can  no  longer  chew  it 
to  nourish  me,  I  rejoice  as  I  rejoiced  in  the  days  of 
my  youth.  My  strength  is  renewed  in  my  children's 
children,  and  the  children's  children  of  my  tribe. 
Through  them  my  feet  follow  the  warpath  as  of  old. 
Through  their  eyes  I  see  again  the  day  of  triumph. 
With  them  I  shall  sing  the  scalp  song  of  victory. 
Through  them  and  their  deeds  I  shall  live  and  never 
die  —  only  sleep ;  for  my  medicine  will  live  on  in 
them,  as  they  fight  side  by  side  with  white  men.  I 
speak  a  great  mystery. 

"I  saw  no  spark  fall  on  Turtle  Mountain,  —  Little 
Owl  says  truly :  my  eyes  are  too  dim,  —  but  the 
spark  has  fallen.  The  fire  is  kindled  in  the  hearts 
of  our  Son  of  the  Silent  Places  and  his  red  brothers. 

"The  meaning  of  the  vision  is  clear.  The  four 
fires  on  the  four  mountains  are  four  torches  burning 
in  the  night  of  war  darkness  for  all  peoples  of  earth 
to  see.  The  sparks  from  their  fire-trails  shall  be 
carried  by  the  great  winds  over  all  the  earth,  to 
catch  in  the  hearts  of  men  of  all  the  earth  tribes 
till  they  burn  to  follow  the  warpath  to  victory." 


262  Out  of  the  Silences 

He  ceased,  almost  exhausted  with  the  fervor  of 
his  words.  Bob  Collamore  stayed  him  with  his 
strong  right  arm.  .  .  . 

The  Indians  left  to  feast  in  Chum's  hut  where  his 
squaw  had  prepared  for  the  occasion  duck  soup  and 
a  sturgeon  pot. 

3 

Me  Gillie  and  Collamore  remained  with  the  old 
Indian.  They  made  a  bowl  of  tea  from  a  five-pound 
package  Bob  had  brought  with  him  as  a  gift.  They 
soaked  the  hard  biscuit  in  it  and  fed  him.  They 
nourished  him  with  a  soft  cake  Kinni-kinnik  had 
made,  of  which  he  was  inordinately  fond.  When 
he  was  strengthened,  they  chatted  together,  all 
three  smoking  and  taking  their  ease. 

It  was  then  Bob  brought  forth  from  his  duffle 
bag  his  special  presents  for  the  old  man :  of  tobacco 
a  winter's  store;  of  sweets,  gumdrops  and  marsh- 
mallows,  two  pounds ;  of  a  pair  of  warm  woolen 
leggings  fringed  along  their  entire  length,  of  woolen 
stockings,  one  of  his  own  warm  vests  and  sack 
coats,  and  last  a  blanket  of  many  colors,  thick 
and  warm. 

The  old  Indian  was  delighted  and  expressed  his 
delight  in  no  uncertain  terms. 

"You  see  this  new  blanket?"  he  said,  pointing 
to  the  thick,  gray,  red-striped,  woolen  square. 

"I  noticed  it  the  first  thing.  Somebody  has  been 
ahead  of  me,  eh?" 

Carmastic  nodded  mysteriously.  He  stroked  the 
soft  woolen  fleece. 

"Yes,  the  medicine-woman  gave  it  to  me." 

"Didn't  know  as  you  had  one  here,  Carmastic. 
Who  is  she?  Do  you  know,  McGillie?" 


The  Man  263 

"Kinni-kinnik  knows  her;  she  has  done  nothing 
but  talk  about  her  since  I  got  back." 

"She  came  to  me  one  day  before  the  snow  fell; 
came  to  the  door  of  my  tepee  with  a  message  from 
your  saddle-maker." 

"  What,  Bill  Plunket !    How  could  she  know  him  ?  " 

"She  knew  him.  She  had  visited  with  him.  She 
brought  me  the  message.  He  does  not  forget  me  or 
the  Turtle  Mountains.  He  sent  me  this  skin  pouch 
to  keep  my  tobacco  in."  He  drew  it  forth  from  the 
folds  of  his  blanket  and  held  it  up  for  the  two  men 
to  admire.  "You  see  this  little  yellow  ornament 
of  gold— " 

"  That's  brass,  Carmastic,"  said  Bob,  smiling. 

"  Brass  or  gold,  it  is  all  one  to  me ;  the  ornament 
is  what  I  treasure.  Look  well.  There  is  a  loon 
wrought  on  it  —  a  flying  loon." 

Bob  and  McGillie  examined  it;  it  was  even  as 
the  old  Indian  said. 

"He  sent  it  to  me  because  of  my  sister,  and  be- 
cause of  my  Son  of  the  Silent  Places  who  marked  the 
way  of  the  loon  across  the  lake,  hearing  her  call. 
When  he  was  a  boy,  and  had  not  then  made  his  fast 
in  the  treetop,  he  hammered  it  out  of  an  old  piece 
of  kettle  the  saddle-maker  bought  from  one  of  my 
tribe.  He  sent  me  word  it  was  the  best  piece  of 
work  the  boy  had  done.  He  treasured  it ;  even  as 
I  treasure  it  for  his  sake,  for  the  sake  of  Flying  Loon, 
my  sister,  for  the  sake  of  my  little  white  friend  of 
the  Turtle  Mountains."  He  smiled  serenely. 

Hearing  those  words,  seeing  that  bit  of  hammered 
brass,  Robert  Collamore  relived  in  one  second  the 
experiences  of  that  day  when  he  and  the  saddle- 
maker,  and  afterwards  the  old  medicine-man,  talked 


264  Out  of  the  Silences 

together  of  dreams,  that  came  from  fasting,  and 
their  "medicine." 

He  made  no  reply  to  the  old  man,  for  he  was 
thinking  hard.  The  trail  had  been  a  long  one.  He 
had  sought  his  "medicine"  along  all  its  length,  all 
its  twists  and  turns,  north,  south,  east,  west.  He 
had  never  found  it  save  in  his  dream  in  the  treetop. 
And  now  there  was  little  chance  to  mid  it  in  reality, 
not  since  his  recent  decision.  Well,  the  reality 
outweighed  all  that  other  —  in  a  way.  It  would 
in  all  likelihood  remain  an  ideal. 

Then  the  old  man,  in  rambling  speech,  —  it  was 
as  if  the  great  effort  at  the  council  had  exhausted 
the  vital  spring,  —  went  back  to  his  childhood,  to 
his  mother,  the  medicine-woman,  dwelling  in  a  past 
of  which  the  two  men  knew  nothing,  into  which 
they  could  not  enter  even  if  they  had  cared  to. 

They  took  leave  of  him  shortly  after,  Collamore 
promising  to  see  him  again  if  possible  on  his  return 
from  North  Lake  whither,  he  told  him,  he  was  going 
on  business.  The  two  men  walked  back  to  the  rail- 
road station  and  separated  there. 

"Keep  me  posted,  Bob.  When  you  go,  I  go  too; 
and  I  know  the  Injuns  will  wait  to  go  with  us." 

"I'll  let  you  know  as  soon  as  I  know  myself.  I've 
got  to  help,  up  north,  in  the  pulp  wood  belt  they  are 
opening  up.  This  war  is  taking  experts  in  this  line 
pretty  fast,  and  it's  part  of  my  duty  to  help  out 
here  first.  It  may  take  me  a  few  weeks,  possibly 
two  months.  Anyway,  I  intend  to  be  in  Val  Carder 
by  the  first  of  February;  that  will  get  me  across  in 
early  summer." 

"The  Indians  will  go  to  a  man,"  said  Me  Gillie, 
as  they  parted. 


The  Man  265 

"I'll  bet  that  wigwam  of  Carmastic's  is  the  first 
recruiting  booth  in  the  '  bush ' ;  what  do  you  say, 
McGillie?" 

Me  Gillie  waited  a  minute  to  take  in  the  full  sense 
of  what  Collamore  was  saying.  Then  he  laughed. 

"  You're  'bout  right,  Bob.  But  it  took  our  old 
medicine-man  to  give  'em  the  stuff,  didn't  it?" 

"He's  bully,"  said  Bob. 

McGillie  went  his  way,  smiling  to  himself. 

THE  OLD  LAKE  POST 
i 

Alison  Doane  always  spoke  of  the  few  days  spent 
as  guest  at  the  Fur  Company's  ancient  trading  post 
as  her ' '  apocalyptic ' '  week.  The  surroundings  seemed 
to  her  unreal,  the  old  house  itself  an  unsubstantial 
vision  of  a  vanished  life. 

It  was  a  week  of  bright  sunny  days  and  deep  blue 
skies,  of  long  nights  of  a  strange  beauty.  The  moon 
was  nearing  the  full.  Its  light  flooded  the  frozen 
surface  of  the  lake  and  the  snow-covered  ground,  until 
the  trees  showed  as  black  blotches  on  a  field  of  white. 

Of  the  life  and  movement,  vocal  and  full  of  color, 
that  her  mother  had  described  to  her,  she  saw  noth- 
ing. Of  the  brigades  of  canoes,  the  voyageurs  in 
gay  capote  and  sash,  and  their  campfires,  there  was 
nothing  in  evidence.  It  needed  the  coming  of  spring 
to  open  the  frozen  gates  to  the  hinterland ;  it  needed 
the  setting  back  of  time  to  the  middle  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  in  order  to  visualize  even  a  small 
part  of  the  flood  tide  of  that  wilderness  life,  so  full 
of  gayety  and  charm  —  as  well  as  of  untold  hard- 
ship —  which  used  to  flow  back  and  forth  along  the 
great  water  highways  of  the  North. 


266  Out  of  the  Silences 

But,  from  the  natural  surroundings  of  the  place 
and  its  marked  scenic  setting,  she  could  well  imagine 
what  that  life  must  have  been  in  those  days  when  her 
mother,  in  her  young  girlhood,  moved  lightly  about 
in  the  old  house,  singing  the  "  chansonnettes "  of  the 
voyageurs  —  songs  which  she  herself  could  sing  even 
now  after  the  lapse  of  years.  She  pictured  her  danc- 
ing for  the  pleasure  of  her  host  and  hostess,  and  a 
chance  guest  or  two  from  far  away  England  or  Scot- 
land, the  same  Highland  Fling  that  her  daughter 
danced,  years  afterwards,  in  a  bark-covered  hut 
among  the  towering  pines  of  a  forest  in  northern 
Minnesota. 

2 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  sixth  day  of  her  visit. 
She  was  expecting  the  arrival  of  her  cousins  and 
their  outfit  at  any  hour,  for  word  was  brought  to 
them  the  day  before,  by  some  teamsters  on  their 
way  up  the  lake,  that  the  party  was  a  day  behind 
them. 

In  honor  of  Evelyn's  coming  she  dressed  herself 
in  some  of  her  "Winnipeg  toggery",  as  Mr.  Carrolly 
called  the  two  women's  numerous  purchases  in  that 
city :  a  thick  white  serge  dress  skirt,  a  closely-fitting 
white  sweater,  over  which  she  put  on  a  Canadian 
blanket  capote,  all  white,  of  which  she  had  been 
enamoured  and  lured  into  undue  extravagance.  She 
drew  the  hood  over  her  head,  when  her  host  said 
the  teams  were  sighted,  and  throwing  around  her 
neck  a  long  crimson  muffler  of  knitted  silk  to  re- 
lieve the  effect  of  dead  whiteness,  ran  out  to  meet 
them. 

The  long  train  of  dog  teams,  the  sound  of  sleigh 
bells,  and  Phil  Carrolly's  college  yell  as  he  caught 


The  Man  267 

sight  of  her,  brought  to  Alison  Doane  a  sense  of  life, 
of  reality,  that  she  had  lost  during  her  short  visit  at 
the  Old  Post ;  brought,  also,  a  realization  of  her 
own  special  day  and  place  in  this  adventuresome 
twentieth  century. 

With  Evelyn's  hug,  not  a  simulacrum  this  time, 
she  was  back  in  the  world  of  her  own  generation,  not 
her  mother's. 

"I  was  never  so  glad  to  see  any  one  in  all  my  life, 
Alison  Doane,  never !  It  has  been  perfectly  forlorn 
without  you ;  even  Phil  was  getting  blue  —  and,  oh, 
my  dear,  I've  so  much  to  tell  you." 

She  turned  to  her  hostess  with  effusive  greeting, 
delighted  to  be  again  with  those  she  called  "real 
people",  so  she  said.  The  two  went  into  the  house, 
Evelyn  declaring  she  was  stiff  from  long  sitting  and 
nearly  frozen. 

Alison  stood  in  the  doorway  ready  to  welcome 
Phil  Carrolly  who,  after  a  few  hearty  words  with 
his  host,  came  towards  her  swinging  his  cap.  He 
greeted  her  right  cousinly  with  a  hearty  smack  on 
each  cheek. 

"I  say,  Alison,  the  sight  of  you  after  these  twenty- 
five  miles  of  ice  and  snow  would  cure  snow-blindness. 
What's  this?"  he  went  on,  standing  her  off,  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder,  at  arm's  length  to  admire 
her  novel  costume.  "Did  you  get  this  in  Winnipeg? 
You  look  as  if  you  had  been  renewing  your  youth. 
I  remember  you  looked  just  as  you  do  now  when  I 
used  to  take  you  to  the  skating  rink  with  Evelyn  — 
and  you  only  seventeen." 

Before  she  could  reply  to  his  half-and-half  flattery 
he  turned  to  a  man  who  was  just  leaving  his  cariole. 

"Mr.  Collamore,  this  is  our  cousin,  Miss  Doane, 


268  Out  of  the  Silences 

of  whom  you  have  heard  quite  enough  from  my  wife 
these  last  few  days.  Evelyn  will  tell  you  all  about 
this  gentleman,  Alison,"  he  added,  mischief  in  his 
voice,  and  turned  again  to  his  host. 

For  a  moment  the  stranger  and  Alison  were  alone. 
She  extended  her  hand  right  cordially  to  him,  for 
she  felt  so  out-going  to  every  one  at  that  moment 
with  all  her  little  world  about  her  after  her  few  days 
at  the  old  trading  post. 

"Perhaps  there  is  no  need  to  welcome  you  to 
the  Old  Lake  Post ;  you  may  know  it,  Mr.  — ,"  she 
looked  at  him  inquiringly,  " — I  did  not  quite  catch 
your  name,  Phil  was  so  indefinite." 

Whether  he  ignored  her  outstretched  hand,  or 
forgot  to  take  it,  or  perhaps  did  not  see  it,  Alison 
at  the  moment  she  offered  it  so  frankly  could  not 
know.  But  she  noticed  a  certain  hesitation  in  his 
manner  and  speech. 

"Collamore  —  Robert  Collamore,  at  your  service." 
Then  for  the  space  of  a  second  he  held  her  hand  in  a 
firm  clasp. 

Hearing  this  name,  Alison  Doane  suddenly  realized 
that  a  fact  stood  in  the  flesh  here  before  her ;  and 
realizing  it  she  was  glad,  so  glad.  She  knew  she 
was  seeing  again  before  her  the  "boy"  she  had  been 
seeking.  This  stranger  could  be  none  other  than  the 
saddle-maker's  "Son"  and  McGillie's  friend  —  for 
Kinni-kinnik's  words  and  the  postcard  assured  her 
of  his  identity  —  whom  she  had  never  forgotten  and 
always  remembered  with  pity.  He  was  the  boy 
whom  in  thought  she  called  her  "little  half-breed." 
Knowing  this,  her  face  showed  her  gladness  —  and 
she  did  not  care  if  it  did. 

To  the  man,  looking  steadily  and  unemotionally 


The  Man  269 

into  that  face,  it  showed  a  radiance  born  of  a  joy  in 
something  of  which  he  was  in  utter  ignorance  —  the 
joy  at  the  discovery  of  himself. 

Nor  was  she  surprised,  as  she  would  have  been  with 
any  other  man,  when,  rather  abruptly  and  with 
some  slight  excuse,  he  turned  again  to  her  host  and 
then  gave  an  order  to  the  half-breed  who  was  with 
his  dog  team.  It  was  one  of  the  satisfying  things 
of  life,  this  discovery.  All  else  did  not  matter  with 
her. 

"He's  a  queer  chap,"  she  said  to  herself  as,  throw- 
ing off  her  capote,  she  went  to  find  Evelyn;  "and 
that's  the  very  thing  I  said  to  father  twenty-two 
years  ago;  persistence  of  type  in  this  case,  and  no 
mistake." 

She  was  smiling  when  she  entered  the  big  gathering 
room,  and  found  Evelyn  warming  her  knees  and  toast- 
ing her  feet  before  the  huge  stove  while  drinking  the 
hot  tea  her  hostess  had  at  once  provided ;  her  young 
daughter,  at  home  from  Montreal  for  the  holiday 
month,  was  serving  it  prettily. 

It  was  no  time  or  place  for  any  exchange  between 
the  two  women  of  experiences  during  the  last  seven 
days  of  their  separation.  The  three  men  came  in  and 
the  conversation  was,  of  course,  general.  They  were 
obliged  to  wait  until  they  went  to  their  rooms,  two 
hours  before  dinner,  leaving  Mr.  Carrolly,  their  host, 
and  Collamore  smoking  and  chatting  together. 

3 

So  soon  as  the  door  closed  upon  them,  the  flood 
of  Evelyn's  information  broke  loose,  but  not  before 
Alison  had  asked  her  question : 

"Do  tell  me,  Evelyn,  about  this  Mr.  Collamore? 
Who  is  he  ?  The  expected  expert  ?  " 


270  Out  of  the  Silences 

Evelyn  divested  herself  of  her  manifold  wraps, 
talking  meanwhile.  She  took  out  a  warm  kimono 
from  what  she  was  pleased  to  call  her  "duffle  bag", 
put  it  on  and  threw  herself  on  the  bed. 

"There,  now,  we  can  talk;  I'm  positively  starved 
for  a  chat  with  you.  Yes,  he's  the  new  expert,  and 
Phil  is  as  pleased  as  a  boy  with  his  first  motorcycle. 
It's  been  just  one  streak  of  luck  for  Phil  this  time, 
and,  of  course,  I  am  correspondingly  happy.  Don't 
you  think  he's  handsome?" 

"Now,  Evelyn,  I  won't  gratify  you  till  I've  had  a 
good  look  at  him.  Tell  me  first  who  he  is,  and  where 
he  comes  from,  and  how  long  he  is  going  to  stay  at 
the  North  Lake  —  and  all  there  is  to  tell." 

"Seems  to  me  you  are  mightily  interested  all  of  a 
sudden.  It's  not  your  way  to  enthuse  over  strangers, 
my  dear." 

"  Goodness,  Evelyn,  if  you  had  been  here  nearly  a 
week  and  feeling  as  if  you  were  out  of  the  world,  you'd 
be  the  first  one  to  show  an  interest  in  one  I  should 
call  an  interesting  man  —  from  his  looks.  He's  so 
different  from  others." 

"You're  quite  right,  Alie."  Evelyn  nodded  ap- 
proval, turning  over  to  face  her  cousin,  her  cheek  in 
her  palm.  "He  is  interesting,  and  I  don't  blame  you 
for  getting  up  a  decided  interest  in  him.  It  has  taken 
seven  days  of  absolute  isolation  to  make  you  get  up  a 
genuine  interest  in  the  first  stranger  you  come  across. 
I  only  wish  I  could  have  known  of  this  recipe  some 
years  ago." 

"Don't  be  so  absurd,  Evelyn.  But  just  get  down 
to  solid  facts,  and  tell  me  something." 

Evelyn  thought  hard  for  a  moment.  "Why,  you 
see,  Alie,  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  very  much  to  tell, 


The  Man  271 

after  all.  Of  course,  he's  charming,  and  very  enter- 
taining ;  but  come  to  think  it  over  he  hasn't  said  so 
very  much  about  himself.  He  seemed  a  little  pre- 
occupied most  of  the  time.  But  Phil  says  his  services 
are  absolutely  incalculable  at  just  this  juncture." 

"Doesn't  Phil  know  how  long  he  is  going  to  stay?" 

"Not  exactly.  He's  going  up  with  us  to-morrow 
and  says  he  may  stay  a  few  weeks  or  a  few  days. 
That's  all  we  know.  Of  course,  Phil  isn't  going  to 
press  him  in  any  way,  for  he  doesn't  want  to  take  any 
risk  of  losing  him.  He's  too  thankful  to  get  him.  I 
suppose  you  can  stand  it  up  there  for  two  weeks  or 
so,  can't  you?" 

"I  can  stand  it  indefinitely  after  this  experience, 
Evelyn."  She  spoke  gravely. 

"What's  been  the  matter,  Alie?  I  knew  there 
was  something  or  you  wouldn't  have  looked,  when  I 
saw  you,  as  if  we  had  come  straight  from  paradise  to 
visit  you  and  take  you  back  with  us." 

Alison  smiled  ;  sometimes  it  was  best  to  be  wholly 
frank  with  her  cousin.  Evelyn  always  appreciated 
that.  So  now  she  spoke  out  from  her  heart. 

"Well,  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  dear,  but  I'm 
afraid  it  is  what  you  might  call  the  destruction  of  an 
ideal.  You  see,  I  have  wanted  all  my  life  to  visit 
this  old  place  where  mother  was  a  girl  and  had  such 
good  times  —  and  so  I  came,  hoping  to  relive  some- 
thing of  what  she  told  me  she  had  enjoyed  here  a  half 
a  century  ago.  You  see,  I  forgot  my  own  age  in 
wanting  to  realize  this  dream  of  mine.  I've  lived  in 
part  on  ideals  all  my  life,  and,  somehow,  the  whole 
thing  has  in  a  way  depressed  me ;  and  I'm  so  awfully 
glad  you've  come.  They  have  been  kindness  itself 
to  me  here;  but  it's  what  the  French  call  'morne': 


272  Out  of  the  Silences 

these  gloomy  cedars,  this  graveyard  of  an  old,  old 
house  with  the  spirit  of  its  old  life  gone  from  it.  I 
belong  to  To-day — and  then  there  is  this  awful  war; 
it  weighs  on  me." 

"Of  course  you  do,  you  dear  old  thing.  I  know 
just  how  you  must  have  felt :  as  if  you'd  walked  back 
into  another  century  and  shut  the  door  tight  on  your- 
self. And  as  for  the  war,  of  course  that's  always  with 
us.  I've  just  finished  my  tenth  pair  of  stockings." 

"That's  just  the  way  I  felt.  And  now  I  am 
beginning  to  feel  as  if  I  could  breathe  again.  I  can't 
wait  for  to-morrow  and  the  beginning  of  our  trip 
north." 

"Well,  if  we  live  to  get  there  we'll  be  lucky.  And 
what's  ahead  of  us  I  don't  know  — " 

"And  I  don't  care  so  long  as  it  isn't  like  this." 

"Of  course  you  don't;  and  it  won't  be  like  this. 
It  couldn't  be  because  we're  going  into  a  totally 
unsettled  wilderness,  except  for  a  few  fishermen  and 
loggers,  so  our  half-breeds  tell  us,  and  everything 
new,  nothing  old. " 

"Oh,"  she  drew  a  long  breath,  "I'm  so  relieved 
just  thinking  of  the  newness." 

Evelyn  Carrolly  bounded  up  on  the  bed.  "I  be- 
lieve you  were  actually  homesick  for  that  Reserva- 
tion, Alison  Doane." 

"I  believe  I  was."      Alison  spoke  meekly. 

"Well,  my  dear,  all  I  can  say  is  tastes  differ.  Now, 
look  here,"  she  said,  switching  to  a  new  idea  of  her 
own,  "let's  make  a  jolly  evening  for  the  men  and  our 
lovely  hostess.  You  needn't  tell  me  they  wouldn't 
enjoy  livening  up  a  little.  We'll  show  them  we're 
not  going  to  take  any  color  from  our  surround- 
ings. And  there  is  that  perfectly  lovely  young 


The  Man  273 

girl  —  I  know  she  will  be  thankful.  What  do 
you  say  to  it?" 

"I'm  with  you  heart  and  soul  — " 

"You  always  were  one-half  angel,  if  you  are  queer 
at  times,  Alison  Doane.  What  are  you  going  to 
wear?" 

Alison's  laugh  rang  out  at  that,  and  Phil  Carrolly, 
coming  down  the  corridor,  heard  it  and  without  pre- 
liminary rap  poked  his  head  in  at  the  door. 

"What's  up,  girls?" 

"Oh,  just  clothes  and  a  bit  of  fun,  Phil,"  said  Ali- 
son, answering  for  both.  "  Evelyn  is  going  to  dress, 
regularly  dress,  for  dinner.  But  this  is  the  best  I 
have  here." 

"You  know  well  enough,  Alison  Doane,  white  is 
the  most  becoming  thing  you  can  wear.  And  if  you'll 
put  that  muffler  round  your  waist  for  a  sash,  you  need 
not  be  better  dressed.  I'm  going  to  wear  my  pale 
blue  chiffon — " 

"Evelyn!"  Alison  made  emphatic  protest. 

"I  am;  I'm  not  going  to  dress  according  to  sur- 
roundings, would  you,  Phil?" 

"Not  if  I  know  myself."  He  spoke  decidedly. 
"Say,  girls,  I'd  rather  be  at  the  Mission  than  here 
—  it's  getting  on  my  nerves."  Both  women  laughed. 
"How  have  you  stood  it,  Alie?" 

"I  had  to,  till  you  and  Evelyn  came;  but  I  know 
just  what  you  mean." 

"Had  enough  of  it,  eh?" 

"More  than  enough;  but  it's  only  the  place. 
These  people  here  have  been  hospitality  itself." 

"They're  a  fine  lot.  We  must  return  this  some- 
how, Eve,  when  they  get  as  far  south  as  New 
York." 


274  Out  of  the  Silences 

"Of  course  we  will.  Now  I  must  dress.  And  you 
needn't  look  at  me  like  that,  Phil,  for  I'm  going  to 
put  on  that  little  ermine  cape  over  the  chiffon ;  so  I'm 
safe  if  it  drops  to  ten  below  in  the  dining  room  and 
we  have  ices  for  dessert."  This  incongruous  state- 
ment, defiant  of  all  unity  of  time  and  place,  brought 
a  laugh  from  the  other  two. 

4 

It  was,  in  truth,  a  merry  evening.  Evelyn's  unadul- 
terated gayety,  the  gayety  of  a  care-free  woman  to 
whom  life  has  been  very  kind,  proved  infectious,  and 
Alison's  secret  joy  in  her  discovery  lent  a  double 
charm  to  all  she  said  and  did.  She  sang  for  them  the 
"chansons"  of  the  voyageurs  —  the  songs  that  so 
many  times,  with  the  coming  of  the  canoe  brigades, 
had  floated  over  the  waters  of  the  lake  to  the  ears 
of  generations  of  dwellers  at  the  Old  Post. 

The  young  daughter  of  the  house  played  the  simple 
accompaniments  to  "A  la  claire  fontaine"  —  (Unto 
the  fountain  clear) ;  "The  Adventurous  Crow", 
known  to  her  mother,  and  played  by  Antoine  on  that 
never  to  be  forgotten  night  in  the  forest  hut;  and 
the  familiar  "Behind  the  manor  there  is  a  pond", 
with  its  famous  chorus,  "Rouli,  roulant,  ma  boule 
roulant",  in  which  they  all  joined. 

Their  host,  his  Scot's  heart  warming  slowly  but 
very  surely  to  the  mood  of  such  joyous  and  welcome 
guests,  brought  out  at  last  a  set  of  rather  antiquated 
bagpipes  on  which,  years  before  in  his  native  town 
in  the  Highlands,  he  had  been  proficient.  With  the 
jests  of  his  wife  and  daughter  and  the  gratulatory  re- 
marks of  his  guests  sounding  in  his  ears,  he  tried  his 
hands  and  lungs  on  them  again,  and  with  no  small 
success.  The  merry  reels  and  jolly  jigs  set  their  feet 


The  Man  275 

in  rhythmic  movement,  Alison  dancing  with  the  young 
daughter,  Collamore  with  Evelyn  Carrolly,  and  her 
husband  with  his  host's  rather  stately  spouse. 

When  they  were  all  half  breathless  with  exercise 
and  laughter,  Alison  begged  her  host  to  play  them 
something  with  the  real  skirl  of  the  bagpipes  in  it, 
adding  that  her  mother  had  told  her  she  once  heard 
them  at  the  Old  Post.  Then  there  rang  through 
the  big  room,  all  too  small  for  such  volume  of  sound, 
the  wild  half -chanting  moan  and  wail  of  the  "Pibroch 
of  Donald  Dhu. " 

"So  many  of  our  brave  Highland  lads  and  our 
Canadian  boys,  too,  are  hearing  the  bagpipes  nowa- 
days in  such  different  circumstances,  I  think  I  never 
want  to  hear  the  pibroch  again,  father,"  their  hostess 
said  to  her  husband  when  he  finished. 

Even  as  she  spoke,  the  thought  of  the  war  crowded 
to  the  fore  in  the  consciousness  of  all  present  —  all 
they  had  heard  of  its  turmoil,  its  horror,  its  unrest,  its 
discords ;  but  without  the  thought  of  its  redeeming 
harmonies  —  the  joy  of  service,  the  braving  of  death 
in  duty,  the  rejoicing  in  victory.  Alison  spoke  im- 
petuously : 

"I  ought  not  to  have  asked  for  the  pibroch ;  I  did 
not  think  at  the  tune." 

To  which  her  host  made  answer  promptly  and 
emphatically : 

"I  am  glad  you  did  not  think  of  it,  Miss  Doane. 
We,  here,  would  give  much  not  to  think  so  continually 
of  it  as  we  do.  How  can  we  expect  you  to  feel  with 
us  who  watch  the  coming  of  every  mail,  even  to  this 
distant  post,  with  dread  and  cold  hands  —  for  we  do 
not  know  'who  next'  among  our  boys.  You  are 
happily  free  from  all  this  as  yet." 


276  Out  of  the  Silences 

Whether  there  was  any  intentional  challenge  in  the 
word  "happily"  his  guests  could  not  know;  but 
Robert  Collamore  interpreted  it  as  such  and,  accept- 
ing it,  spoke  in  answer,  abruptly,  almost  harshly : 

"'Happily' ?    I  don't  know  about  that." 

His  host  looked  at  him  in  some  surprise.  "Then 
you  feel  perhaps  as  we  do?" 

"Yes,  I  feel  strongly  on  that  point;  it's  a  sore  one 
with  me." 

That  was  all  he  said  at  the  moment,  for  the  ladies 
were  saying  good-night.  It  was  early  to  bed,  for  on 
the  morrow  it  was  a  start  at  dawn  into  the  wilderness 
still  farther  north.  But  when  he  was  alone  with  his 
host  Collamore  freed  his  mind,  and  the  two  men  sat 
discussing  the  gravity  of  the  situation  until  midnight. 

5 

When  Alison  Doane  laid  her  head  on  her  pillow  it 
was  not  to  sleep  at  once,  but  to  compare  the  two 
evenings  which,  throughout  her  life,  had  given  her  the 
most  intense  enjoyment.  The  first  with  its  gay, 
gentle  music,  product  of  Antoine's  clarionet,  followed 
by  the  impassioned  strains  of  the  Czardas  from  the 
Hungarian  boy's  violin,  while  the  wind  raged  and 
the  wet  snow  was  dashed  against  the  window  panes. 
The  second,  this  of  to-night  with  the  foreign  skirl  of 
the  bagpipes,  suggestive  of  tumult  and  mourning. 
Yet  without  there  was  no  hint  of  storm,  only  an  in- 
tense stillness  in  the  air,  on  the  land,  over  the  ice- 
bound waters.  Interwoven  with  the  experiences  of 
both  nights  was  the  presence  of  the  boy,  "Little 
Owl",  now  a  man  in  whom  she  could  never  have 
recognized  the  lad  of  white  set  face,  drawn  with  grief 
for  the  loss  of  his  dog. 

Had  it  not  been  for  Kinni-kinmk's  conclusive  evi- 


The  Man  277 

dence,  she  would  not  have  been  sure  that  all  this 
experience  was  not  a  dream. 
6 

At  midnight,  Robert  Collamore,  knowing  that  there 
was  no  sleep  for  him  until  he  should  have  threshed 
out  matters  with  himself,  went  out  into  the  white 
night  and  its  cold  silences  where  alone  he  could  hold 
communion  with  his  own  soul. 

He  walked  rapidly ;  he  knew  the  ground ;  he  had 
been  here  before. 

He  felt  most  at  home  in  this  night  stillness,  for  he 
was  born  in  the  "silent  places"  of  the  great  plains; 
brought  up  in  the  wooded  quiet  of  the  Turtle  Moun- 
tain wilderness.  Ever  since  then,  during  his  journey- 
ings  to  and  fro  in  his  own  land  and  the  lands  to  the 
south  and  north,  he  had  found  the  great  silences  of  the 
solemn-shadowed  desert,  or  the  wintry  solitude  of  the 
forested  North-land,  his  best  breeding  places  for  de- 
cisive thought  upon  which  swift  action  must  follow. 

Without  stopping  in  his  walk  he  held  commune 
with  himself,  not  silent  but  vocal ;  for  he  spoke  aloud 
with  and  to  himself  —  a  habit  acquired  years  ago 
when  he  was  alone  for  weeks  on  the  range,  or  in  the 
"  bush  ",  or  "cruising"  in  extensive  tracts  of  virgin  forest. 

"It's  the  end  of  the  trail,  and  you  know  it,"  he 
said.  "Now  hold  your  head  up  like  a  man,  Bob 
Collamore,  and  look  the  thing  squarely  in  the  face. 

"She  is  the  woman  —  and  you  know  it.  Don't 
flinch  at  the  truth.  How  you  know  it  is  a  matter  of 
no  importance.  You  know  it ;  and  you  knew  it 
with  the  first  look  into  her  face,  didn't  you?  You 
knew  your  hour  had  struck  —  at  last.  You  acknowl- 
edge of  your  own  free  will  this  to  be  an  incontrovertible 
and  unchangeable  fact,  do  you  ? 


278  Out  of  the  Silences 

"You  do.  Very  well.  Let's  look  at  the  facets  of 
this  fact ;  you'll  find  there  are  many : 

"First,  this  woman  belongs  to  you,  doesn't  she? 

"Now  and  always ;  for  this  world  and  the  world  to 
come,  if  there  be  one. 

"Why  she  belongs  to  you,  you  can't  say  —  and 
anyway,  that's  neither  here  nor  there  —  you  only 
know  she  does.  But  she  doesn't  know  it;  and  you 
are  the  only  one  to  make  her  realize  this,  doubtless 
to  her,  mighty  queer  fact.  This,  Bob,  is  a  matter  of 
time,  and  your  time  is  limited  before  you  go. 

"For  you're  going,  you  know;  this  is  a  dead  sure 
thing.  You've  kind  o'  consecrated  yourself. 

"Yet  you  love  this  woman  — •  and  you  don't  intend 
that  this  love  of  yours  for  her  shall  conflict  in  any  way 
with  your  duty,  boy,  do  you  ? 

"Not  on  your  life. 

"That's  all  right  —  but  how  about  her?" 

His  breath  grew  short  for  a  moment. 

"Get  your  wind,  Bob,  and  at  it  again :  How  about 
her?  How  about  the  woman?  Let's  turn  the  fact 
around  and  look  at  another  facet : 

"What  right  have  you,  with  every  God-given  force 
in  you  to  try  to  make  her  love  you  as  you  love  her, 
and  then  leave  her  — 

"My  God,  if  she  should  come  to  love  me  —  love 
me! 

"You  know  your  duty ;  your  consecration  will  per- 
mit no  dallying  with  love.  You  know  this,  don't 
you? 

"Yes,  of  course  you  know  it  — 

"You  know  you  will  leave  her,  loving  you,  to  face 
life  perhaps  alone,  unprotected,  unsatisfied  with  your 
presence  — 


The  Man  279 

"I  know  all  that,  but  — 

"But  what  ?    Are  you  going  to  sacrifice  the  woman ? 

"'Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan'!"  He  almost 
shouted  it  into  the  night.  "  You're  a  mean  low-down 
soul,  Bob  Collamore,  if  you  can't  trust  this  woman 
you  love  with  your  very  soul  to  love  you  in  the  same 
way,  so  that,  distance  or  no  distance,  life  apart  or  life 
together,  in  death  or  hi  life,  your  love  for  her  and  hers 
for  you  will  know  no  change;  for  if  it  could  know 
change,  why  —  she  wouldn't  be  the  woman,  don't  you 
see? 

"You  doubting  cuss,  you're  no  man,  or  worthy  of 
the  name,  if  you  harbor  that  devil-thought,  suggested 
to  you  in  your  weakest  hour,  for  a  second  time." 

7 

He  shook  himself,  as  if  to  rid  himself  of  the  hated 
presence  of  an  untrustful  thought  towards  this  woman 
to  whom  he  had  given  himself;  then  turned  in  his 
steps  and  walked  rapidly  back  towards  the  house. 

"I  will  win  out.  I'd  kick  myself  for  a  double- 
dyed  coward  if  I  went  into  the  fight  over  there  with 
such  distrust  of  the  outcome.  I  don't  know  the  word 
'fail.'  This  woman's  love  is  for  me  and  me  alone. 

"Haven't  waited  till  I  am  thirty-five  to  lie  down 
on  the  trail  with  the  end  in  sight.  I've  thought  the 
end  would  never  come  —  and  now  I  know  there  will 
be  home  and  love,  and  cool  water  for  my  thirst,  and 
a  gentle  hand  for  my  aching  head ;  and  my  soul  shall 
sit  hi  the  silences  with  her,  the  woman  I  love,  the  only 
one  whom  my  Maker  has  made  to  share  them  with 
me. 

"Now  make  tracks  to  the  house.  Get  some  sleep. 
Show  to  her  clear  eyes  and  a  smile  in  the  morning. 
You've  acted  like  a  bumptious  fool  ever  since  you  met 


280  Out  of  the  Silences 

her  ten  hours  ago.  Ten  hours?  Humph,  what  do 
you  know  about  it  —  rather,  ten  thousand  years. 
But  be  cautious,  Son,  she  is  not  the  kind  to  be  snared ; 
she's  got  to  come  of  her  own  accord  —  for  a  man  to 
be  sure." 

THE  NORTH  LAKE 
i 

On  the  morrow  the  dawn  was  long  in  breaking  into 
low  sunshine.  The  cold  was  not  severe  and  the 
weather  perfect.  It  was  primitive  travelling  —  a 
large  body  sledge,  and  the  three  dog  teams.  But 
the  sleigh  held  all  the  comforts,  as  to  rugs  and 
wraps,  for  keeping  its  occupants  warm,  besides  many 
packages  that  contained  certain  luxuries  provided 
by  Evelyn  to  make  life  what  she  called  "endurable" 
for  a  few  days  in  the  wilderness. 

Some  vacant  fishers'  huts  afforded  them  shelter, 
such  as  it  was,  for  their  two  nights  on  the  way. 
But  it  was  all  work  and  no  play,  this  getting  a 
two  days'  journey  northward  of  Groundhouse,  and 
much  sociability  was  out  of  the  question.  The  one 
aim  in  view  for  all  the  outfit  was  to  "get  there" 
before  being  overtaken  by  a  storm. 

Alison  saw  little  of  the  "boy."  Once  Collamore 
asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  try  his  cariole  and  dogs 
by  way  of  experiment.  Her  joyful  acceptance  was 
reward  for  what  he  termed  his  temerity  in  suggesting 
it.  He  took  his  place  with  the  Carrollys  in  the  sleigh, 
Evelyn  positively  refusing,  although  urged  by  her 
husband,  to  make  any  experiments  on  ice.  And  once 
at  daybreak  in  a  fisher's  hut,  when  Alison  pro- 
posed to  fry  bacon  and  make  coffee  for  her  party, 
Collamore  swept  her  aside  with  gentle  force  and  took 
possession  of  food  and  utensils,  saying : 


The  Man  281 

"No  women,  Carrolly,  know  how  to  cook  bacon, 
—  they  fry  it,  men  broil  it,  —  nor  to  make  what  you 
might  call  life-saving  coffee.  But  I  yield  the  palm 
to  you,  Mrs.  Carrolly,  on  the  tea,"  and  proceeded  to 
broil  the  succulent  strips  of  fat  over  a  red-hot  fire,  and 
make  coffee  after  the  most  approved  recipe  of  the 
"bush." 

2 

Thirty-five  miles  on  the  last  day  was  the  record 
to  the  credit  of  tired  horses  and  dogs  when,  at  ten 
o'clock,  they  sighted  the  light  in  the  window  of 
the  foreman's  hut  on  a  bluff  overlooking  the 
North  Lake.  The  light  was  fading  in  the  west 
and  the  rising  moon  at  full.  Frozen  lakes,  snow- 
covered  portages,  sparkling  hi  the  clear  sunlight, 
silvered  in  the  moonlight  —  these  had  been  their 
winter  highway,  the  only  one  for  man  and  beast, 
into  the  great  northern  wilderness. 

Mr.  Dunstanes,  the  foreman  at  the  plant,  and  his 
young  wife  were  on  the  lookout  for  them,  and  the 
welcome  they  and  their  hut  gave  them  was  a  thing 
to  remember. 

The  hut  was  large,  strongly  built,  with  an  ample 
loft.  One  end  Mrs.  Dunstanes  had  partitioned  off  by 
hanging  some  pretty  cretonne  on  a  pole  for  curtains ; 
behind  them  was  her  bedroom  which  she  gave  to  her 
two  women  guests.  Seeing  this  arrangement,  all  the 
old  joy  of  that  night  in  the  Minnesota  forest  came 
back  to  Alison  Doane.  Her  joy  was  so  genuine,  so 
evident  to  all  present,  that  Mrs.  Carrolly  took  occa- 
sion to  whisper  to  her  husband,  after  climbing  the 
ladder  to  the  loft  to  see  the  accommodations  for  the 
three  men,  their  host  and  his  two  guests : 

"What  do  you  suppose  ails  Alison,  Phil?    She  has 


282  Out  of  the  Silences 

looked  like  this,  about  seventeen,  ever  since  we  struck 
{^roundhouse  and  this  forsaken  land ;  in  fact,  she  came 
back  from  that  trip  to  those  Minnesota  lands  with 
something  in  her  face  I  fail  to  understand." 

"Perhaps  she  is  reconsidering  what  you  told  me 
.about  the  man  and  his  proposal.  I've  often  wondered 
if  Alison  were  bluffing  you  there.  Ten  to  one  she's 
engaged  to  him.  But  even  if  she  is,  and  she  keeps  on 
looking  like  this,  she  will  prove  dangerous  for  Colla- 
more  or  any  other  man  who  has  eyes  in  his  head." 

"Nonsense,  Phil  Carrolly,"  said  Evelyn  a  bit 
tartly,  —  it  really  was  not  necessary  for  Phil  to  praise 
Alison  in  such  terms,  —  "  I  know  Alison  Doane  better 
than  you  do.  No  man  ever  knows  a  woman  as  an- 
other woman  does.  Alison  is  living  with  her  ideals, 
so  she  calls  them.  She  is  going  back  to  her  youth 
and  living  again  in  imagination  that  good  time  she 
had  with  Uncle  Elton  just  before  he  died." 

"Poor  girl,  I'm  glad  she  had  it.  Well,  let  her  have 
all  the  pleasure  she  can  get  out  of  it.  She's  had  a 
hard  row  to  hoe  in  her  life  —  " 

Mrs.  Carrolly  interrupted  him. 

"You  know  perfectly  well  it's  her  own  fault.  My 
home  was  open  to  her  from  the  first." 

" — And  she  is  young  yet.  Collamore  can't  be  as 
old  as  she  is,  from  the  little  he  has  said." 

"You  don't  know  whether  he  is  married  or  not; 
you  told  me  so.  You'd  better  wait  till  you  find  that 
out,  my  dear." 

"I  leave  that  for  you.  You  generally  know  within 
twenty-four  hours  whether  there  is  a  possible  matri- 
monial hitch-up  in  sight  for  a  man  and  woman,  if  they 
only  happen  to  exchange  remarks  about  the  weather." 

"Don't  be  sarcastic,  Phil ;  it  isn't  becoming  to  you, 


The  Man  285 

not  In  this  climate.  But  I  think  you  might  sound  the 
gentleman  on  the  subject — " 

"What  for?    About  Me?" 

"You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean  — " 

"Well,  I  did  sound  him,  if  that  is  any  satisfaction 
to  you ;  but  he  gave  me  no  bearings  —  probably  said 
to  himself,  'None  of  your  darned  business.'  Come, 
let's  go  down.  The  Dunstanes  have  planned  this  well 
for  such  a  crowd,  but  we  mustn't  trespass  on  their 
hospitality  too  long.  We'll  get  away  just  as  soon  as 
we  can.  I  take  it  from  what  Collamore  said  he 
would  go  back  with  us  — " 

"No,  did  he?  Well,  that's  queer.  Alison  found 
time  to  tell  me  just  before  we  came  up  that  she  wanted 
to  stay  here  all  winter  —  for  the  experience.  What 
do  you  think  of  that  for  a  wild  notion?" 

Her  husband  turned  to  her  suddenly  and  spoke 
forcefully  in  an  undertone : 

"You  let  Alison  do  exactly  as  she  pleases;  and 
don't  you  meddle,  Eve,  with  any  of  her  notions  and 
intentions.  I'd  bank  on  Alison  every  tune  for  having 
a  level  head.  What  she  likes,  we  don't,  but  — " 

"No,  thank  fortune,  we  don't.  And  you  needn't 
speak  so  to  me,  Phil,  for  I'm  dead  tired,  and  you  seem 
to  think  I  am  going  to  ask  for  the  banns  to  be  cried 
for  her  and  your  expert  when  we  get  back  to  Ground- 
house.  Men  are  so  queer  at  times,  and  you,  my  dear, 
are  one  of  the  queerest." 

Hearing  which,  and  knowing  Evelyn  was  really 
put  out,  her  husband  hastened  to  apologize : 

"Well,  my  dear,  I'm  here  for  prospective  pulp  wood, 
not  romance;  so  you  will  have  to  look  at  things 
through  my  eyes  till  we  get  away  from  here.  Colla- 
more says  he  has  been  up  here  once  before,  last  year 


284  Out  of  the  Silences 

sometime,  and  is  convinced  the  big  mill  will  pay 
roundly  on  our  investment  of  capital  in  opening 
up  this  wooded  region.  Dunstanes,  too,  is  all  en- 
thusiasm for  his  job." 

"Well,  Phil,  if  we  can  get  away  from  here  and  back 
to  that  blessed  old  New  York  before  Christmas  I  shall 
be  thankful  enough.  You  might  say  to  Alison  that 
you  suspect  the  gentleman  is  married  — " 

"I'll  be  hanged  if  I  will.  Now  don't  get  me  mad, 
Evelyn,  —  " 

"Why,  Phil  Carrolly,  as  if  I  wanted  you  to  get 
mad—" 

Her  husband  went  down  the  ladder  backwards 
with  the  agility  of  a  monkey.  He  could  gauge,  from 
long  experience,  the  tenacity  of  his  wife  on  a  last  word. 
He  really  didn't  want  to  lose  his  temper  in  the  hut. 
There  were  no  partitions. 

3 

The  next  morning  Alison  took  the  first  opportunity 
after  breakfast,  in  the  preparation  of  which  she  and 
Mrs.  Dunstanes  considered  themselves  partners,  to 
prospect  a  little  for  herself.  Mrs.  Carrolly  preferred 
the  warm  interior,  her  knitting,  and  a  cozy  chat  with 
lier  young  hostess.  The  men  were  to  take  them  over 
to  the  site  of  the  prospective  mill,  and  the  small  one 
already  in  operation,  the  next  day. 

She  had  barely  closed  the  door  and  walked  a  few 
yards  to  the  right  of  the  hut,  and  nearer  the  edge  of 
the  bluff,  when  she  stopped  short  and  gave  vent  to  a 
long-drawn  breath  of  delight. 

"Oh,  how  beautiful !"  she  exclaimed,  and  was  glad 
to  be  alone. 

Before  her,  reaching  miles  to  the  southward,  was 
the  noble  North  Lake. 


The  Man  285 

She  stood  there  entranced.  Such  silent  beauty! 
The  atmosphere  was  calm ;  there  was  no  movement 
among  the  trees,  no  ripple  of  water,  no  call,  no  cry  of 
any  living  thing  —  a  stillness  as  deep  as  that  sur- 
rounding the  Old  Lake  Post,  but  so  different.  This 
seemed  to  her  a  young  silence:  air  and  sunshine, 
sparkling  unsullied  snow,  the  dark  woods,  —  all  in- 
stinct with  vitality,  with  life-giving  refreshment. 

4 

The  North  Lake  might  well  be  called  the  great 
head  of  the  greater  Winnipegosis,  connected  with  it, 
as  it  is,  by  the  slight  sinews  of  a  short  portage,  were 
it  not  for  the  fact  that  its  waters  drain  into  the 
Saskatchewan  and  not  into  the  "  Little  Sea." 

Alison  Doane  stood  there  long,  marvelling  at  its 
beauty.  Its  frozen  surface,  snow  covered,  glittering 
in  the  morning  sun,  was  broken  by  many  small 
islands,  showing  black  on  white,  for  they  were 
rock-ledged  and  dark  with  woods.  Its  high- 
ridged  western  shores  were  crowned  by  dense  cedar 
forests. 

She  turned  to  look  at  the  foreman's  hut,  and 
made  her  second  discovery :  it  faced  eastward  and 
looked  across,  not  down  the  lake.  It  had  a  raw 
appearance  in  this  setting,  although  the  boards 
were  already  weather-beaten.  At  the  back,  leaning 
against  it,  or  possibly  propping  it,  was  a  log  cabin 
of  the  primitive  type.  On  the  end  of  this  was  a 
lean-to.  Against  it  many  cords  of  wood  were  neatly 
piled. 

She  walked  around  it ;  the  small  low  entrance  was 
on  the  farther  end.  She  stepped  inside. 

It  was  about  eight  feet  in  the  walls.  One  tiny 
window  gave  what  light  there  was ;  she  looked  out. 


286  Out  of  the  Silences 

It  was  the  same  point  of  view  for  the  scenic  setting 
she  admired  from  the  edge  of  the  bluff. 

Then  and  there  she  made  her  decision :  this  cabin 
should  be  hers  for  a  while.  For  one  winter,  at  least, 
she  would  live  here  in  this  life-giving  climate ;  experi- 
ence something  of  the  freedom,  the  expansion  of  life 
in  this  wonderful  white  solitude  of  the  north  so 
filled  with  low  white  sunshine.  This  should  be  the 
second  chapter  of  her  one  adventure  in  life,  the  camp- 
ing trip  through  northern  Minnesota,  and  its  climax 
in  that  one  night  in  the  hut  among  its  pine  forests. 
Besides  — 

What  "besides"  remained  for  the  tune  unformu- 
lated. 

She  began  to  make  measurements  with  the  sash  of 
her  sweater,  as  is  usual  with  an  inventive  woman  who 
prefers  to  trust  her  judgment  with  almost  anything, 
from  an  apron  hem  to  the  stretch  of  her  arm  from  her 
nose,  rather  than  a  man's  accurate  foot-rule.  She 
measured  door  space,  window  space,  furniture  space, 
partition  length.  She  paced  a  place  for  the  stove. 
Then  she  investigated. the  lean-to.  Evidently  it  was 
satisfying  and  absorbing  work,  for  she  forgot  time  and 
appeared  in  the  hut  just  before  dinner. 

5 

Mrs.  Carrolly  looked  up  inquiringly  when  she 
entered.  " Where  have  you  been,  Alison?" 

"  Stand  and  deliver,  Alie,  or  I'll  not  take  you  over 
to  the  new  mill  site  to-morrow,"  said  her  husband. 

"I've  been  prospecting,  Phil." 

"Good  for  you.  What  did  you  find,  a  new  pulp 
wood  stand? 

"Something  better  —  " 

"You  look  as  if  you  had  discovered  the  pot  of  gold 


The  Man  287 

at  the  end  of  the  rainbow."  Mrs.  Dunstanes  spoke 
at  the  same  tune,  looking  admiringly  at  the  flushed, 
animated  face. 

"You  have  made  a  good  guess.  At  any  rate,  it  is 
my  pot  of  gold  and  a  real  rainbow  end  this  time." 

Collamore  said  nothing,  but  he  watched  the  play 
of  her  expressive  face.  She  was  wishing  he  would 
interest  himself  in  her  affairs  so  far  as  to  ask  her  one 
question,  at  least.  It  was  evident  he  was  not  going 
to  gratify  her. 

She  plunged  enthusiastically  into  the  midst  of  her 
undertaking,  and  ended  by  declaring  she  would  spend 
the  winter  in  the  log  cabin  plus  the  lean-to. 

"  A  lean-to  ?  Well,  Alison  Doane,  that's  the  lim  —  " 
Mrs.  Carrolly's  protest  was  cut  short  by  her  husband. 

"You  are  all  right,  Alie !  Don't  heed  Evelyn. 
Cut  loose  from  civilization  and  convention,  and  do  as 
you  choose  for  once  in  your  life  where  there  will  be 
no  red  tape  to  hamper  your  movements.  I  glory  in 
your  independence;  and  I'll  give  you  a  commission 
if  you  will  do  something  for  the  comfort  of  my  men 
up  here.  They  need  it,  that's  a  sure  thing.  I 
should  go  to  the  devil  if  I  had  to  stay  here  four 
weeks." 

They  laughed  at  his  earnestness ;  but  Collamore 
told  himself  there  was  something  more  than  a  mere 
business  superstructure  in  Carrolly's  make-up  for 
which  he  had  not  given  him  credit.  If  it  weren't  for 
his  wife  — • 

But  there  Robert  Collamore  halted  his  thought,  for 
he  knew  it  was  each  to  his  taste  in  this  world  of  wide 
choice,  and  he  read  Evelyn  Carrolly  like  a  book. 

Mrs.  Dunstanes  grasped  both  her  hands:  "Oh, 
Miss  Doane,  if  you  only  will !  It  will  be  a  perfect 


288  Out  of  the  Silences 

arrangement.  I  don't  expect  my  sister  for  at  least 
two  months."  She  appealed  to  her  husband. 

"I'll  put  every  man  at  your  disposal  for  one  day, 
Miss  Doane,  and  charge  it  to  the  company,  if  you 
will  stay  with  us ;  and  every  Indian  and  half-breed 
that  works  for  me." 

"I  will  stay.  It's  all  settled,  Mr.  Dunstanes,  now 
that  I  can  have  the  men  to  fetch  and  haul  and  carry. 
I  wouldn't  for  the  world  poach  on  your  business  pre- 
serve, Phil,  but  you  know  they  are  the  one  thing 
necessary  to  make  a  paradise  out  of  a  wilderness  — " 

"I  have  always  had  a  sneaking  idea  that  it  was  the 
other  way  round,  Mrs.  Carrolly,"  said  Collamore  with 
a  mischievous  look  in  Evelyn's  direction,  seeing  which 
that  lady  felt  an  immediate  revival  of  courage.  It 
was  the  first  opening  he  had  made  for  her  to  ask 
a  certain  question. 

"Don't  tease,  Mr.  Collamore,  you  know  what  I 
mean.  I  want  men  who  can  work  for  me,  for  I  can't 
peel  spruce  bark,  and  that's  what  I  want  —  and  a 
load  of  it." 

"What  for?"  Mrs.  Carrolly  demanded. 

"Hold  on  a  minute,  Eve,  one  at  a  time.  I  must 
make  a  few  memoranda."  With  mock  gravity  her 
husband  drew  out  his  notebook.  "Men  are  not  apt 
to  peel  bark  in  winter  for  certain  structural  tree- 
reasons,  eh,  Collamore?  But  we'll  try  for  it.  Any 
more  large  orders  Evelyn  and  I  can  fill  for  you  in 
Montreal  or  New  York  ?  " 

"Oh,  you  may  laugh,  both  of  you,  but  you'll  see. 
Mrs.  Dunstanes  says  there  is  another  big  box 
stove  in  cold  storage  here,  in  my  lean-to,  —  I  saw 
it  and  it's  just  what  I  want  and  need,  —  and  I'd  like 
it,  if  it  is  not  to  be  used  for  any  of  the  men's  huts." 


The  Man  289 

"Nota  bene,"  murmured  Carrolly,  making  notes, 
"another  box  stove  hi  case  the  men  fall  short  on 
account  of  supplying  city  guests ;  and  one  bigger 
stove  for  the  new  canteen  —  'A.  D.  Association'. 
How's  that  ?  Mem.  —  Chairs  and  boards  for  tables 
and  shelves ;  our  little  sawmill  can't  run  before  spring, 
Dunstanes  ?  " 

"Not  before  the  last  of  May;  but  we  have  some 
boards.  Seems  to  me  you  are  giving  Miss  Doane  a 
larger  order  than  she  gives  you." 

"Just  what  she  dotes  on,  Mr.  Dunstanes,"  said  Mrs. 
Carrolly.  "Give  her  a  wilderness,  some  men,  and  an 
object  in  life,  and  you  have  my  cousin  at  her  best." 

"In  any  case  the  stove  is  yours,  Miss  Doane. 
Your  cabin  was  a  fisher's  hut." 

Alison  turned  triumphantly  to  her  cousin.  "You 
see,  now,  don't  you,  Evelyn,  how  all  things  work 
together,  even  to  the  comforts  of  life,  up  here  in  this 
wilderness?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see  well  enough,  my  dear;  but  some- 
how I  don't  recognize  the  end  and  aim  of  all  this 
working  together."  She  looked  thoroughly  puzzled. 

"Just  have  a  little  patience,  Evelyn,  and  in  time 
you  will  recognize  the  face  of  an  old  friend ;  then  you 
will  rejoice  with  me.  For  surely  you  and  Phil  will  come 
up  here  next  summer  —  and  all  the  way  by  water." 

"Mercy,  Alison,  do  let  us  get  home  first." 

In  the  exuberance  of  her  delight  at  the  brightening 
prospects  of  making  the  log  cabin  into  a  little  home 
of  her  own  in  the  wilderness,  Alison  peeled  off  her 
sweater  and  began  to  help  Mrs.  Dunstanes  put  the 
simple  dinner  on  a  very  primitive  table  —  three  boards 
laid  on  two  carpenter's  trestles  —  at  which  after  they 
were  seated  the  talk  became  general. 


290  Out  of  the  Silences 

"We  are  not  going  to  tax  your  hospitality  and  the 
capacity  of  the  hut  any  longer  than  is  absolutely 
necessary,  Mrs.  Dunstanes," said  Carrolly.  "  Mr.  Col- 
lamore  finds  he  must  return  to  Montreal  to  consult 
with  a  man  there.  I  go  with  him.  As  the  weather, 
you  say,  Mr.  Dunstanes,  is  apt  to  be  fine  on  the  full  of 
the  moon  in  this  latitude,  I  think  it  will  be  best  to 
start  day  after  to-morrow.  The  horses  and  dogs  will 
be  fresh  by  that  time." 

"Have  you  any  idea  when  you  will  be  back,  Mr. 
Collamore?"  Mr.  Dunstanes  asked. 

"Not  before  the  last  of  December  at  the  earliest." 

"It  is  too  bad  you  have  to  be  away  from  home  at 
Christmas  time,  Mr.  Collamore.  Phil  and  I  always 
think  so  much  of  that."  Mrs.  Carrolly's  voice  was 
full  of  sympathy. 

It  was  said  innocently  enough ;  but  Alison,  looking 
up  quickly  from  her  plate,  caught  just  the  slightest 
lift  of  Collamore's  left  eyebrow,  and  by  that  token 
she  knew  he  had  seen  through  her  cousin's  manoeuvre. 
She  wondered  how  he  would  take  it. 

"To  be  frank,  Mrs.  Carrolly,  Christmas  does  not 
mean  much  to  me.  It  has  passed  many  times  with- 
out my  knowing  of  the  day  when  I  have  been  alone 
in  the  bush  or  on  the  range.  Much  of  my  young  life 
was  passed  in  the  wilderness,  and,  somehow,  my  en- 
trance into  civilization  did  not  take  with  it  any 
memories  of  holidays  or  home." 

He  spoke  to  Mrs.  Carrolly,  but  he  glanced  quickly 
at  Alison ;  he  detected  sudden  tears  in  her  eyes. 

The  very  frankness  with  which  she  was  answered 
precluded,  and  for  the  first  time,  a  ready  answer  from 
Evelyn  Carrolly's  lips.  A  life  that  took  no  note  of 
holidays,  a  homeless  life  —  it  was  without  the  pale  of 


The  Man  291 

her  experience  and  imagination.     Collamore  relieved 
her  slight  embarrassment  by  saying  gayly : 

"But  I  can  assure  you,  Mrs.  Carrolly,  one  memory 
of  civilization  will  linger  with  me  to  the  end,  the  tea 
you  make.  I  never  tasted  its  like,  and  I  am  going  to 
suggest  you  give  us  all  an  after  dinner  treat  by  making 
us  some.  I  speak  for  three  cups,  and  two  lumps  of 
sugar  in  each  cup,  please." 

Hearing  this,  Evelyn  Carrolly  beamed  on  him  and 
made  such  a  teapotful  of  delicious  tea  that  it  marked 
the  day  in  the  hut  calendar  hanging  on  the  wall,  with 
a  red  C.  Mrs.  Dunstanes  made  sure  of  that. 

Alison  Doane  said  nothing.  She  was  recalling  all 
the  saddle-maker  had  told  about  this  boy-man,  so  she 
called  him  to  herself,  of  his  hardships  and  struggle, 
and,  in  the  face  of  them,  his  ignoring  of  what  defeat 
could  mean. 

6 

There  were  gray  skies  the  following  morning.  Dur- 
ing the  forenoon  the  two  women  went  over  to  the  site 
of  the  big  mill.  On  their  return  for  dinner  it  began  to 
snow,  despite  tradition  of  full  moon  influence,  and  for 
that  afternoon  and  evening  the  whole  party  were  neces- 
sarily thrown  upon  their  own  resources  for  entertain- 
ment. The  hut  was  really  too  full  of  humanity  to 
yield  entire  comfort. 

This  sudden  change  of  weather  gave 'Mr.  Carrolly 
the  fidgets  on  his  wife's  account.  He  feared  to  be 
weather-bound  in  such  close  quarters  and  in  such  a 
high  latitude.  It  was  to  bridge  over  this  time  of  wait- 
ing for  things  to  look  more  propitious,  that  Collamore 
entered  the  breach,  assuring  them  that  a  little  more 
;  snow  would  make  the  travelling  much  easier. 

Then  some  barrier  of  reserve  seemed  to  give  way, 


292  Out  of  the  Silences 

and  he  told  them  a  little  of  his  boyhood  in  the  Turtle 
Mountains,  of  his  saddle-maker,  of  McGillie  and 
Kinni-kinnik.  He  spoke  of  the  Indians  who  were  his 
friends.  He  told  Mr.  Dunstanes  that  Long  John, 
Kinni-kinnik's  grandfather,  still  in  his  early  sixties, 
had  asked  for  and  obtained  the  contract  for  the  mail 
and  expected  to  bring  it  up  to  the  plant  once  in  six 
weeks.  He  hoped  to  make  some  arrangement  by 
which  he  might  make  the  return  trip  with  him. 
And,  speaking  of  the  opening  up  of  available  tracts 
of  forest,  he  was  led  by  some  judicious  questioning 
on  Phil  Carrolly's  part,  who  had  conceived  a  great 
admiration  for  the  man,  to  speak  of  his  own  appren- 
ticeship for  expert  in  the  famous  timber  belts  of  his 
own  and  other  lands ;  and  afterwards  of  some  of  his 
experiences  as  cowboy,  and  small  rancher  in  Wyoming. 

The  hut  rang  with  laughter  at  some  of  his  stories 
and  the  inimitable  way  in  which  they  were  told. 
When  at  last  the  long  winter  evening  came  to  a  close, 
as  good  things  will,  Evelyn  Carrolly  declared  it  had 
been  one  of  the  shortest  in  her  life,  and  nothing  would 
prevent  her,  if  they  came  up  to  the  plant  next 
summer,  from  stopping  on  the  way  and  paying  a 
flying  visit  to  dear  old  Bill  Plunket  in  Minnesota. 

To  all  of  which  Alison  Doane  said  never  a  word. 
Robert  Collamore,  wondering  a  little  at  her  non- 
responsiveness,  told  himself  that  he  had  not  yet 
the  clue  to  the  right  approach.  But  he  recalled  the 
sudden  tears  when  he  spoke  so  casually  of  being  home- 
less, and,  in  that  remembrance,  fell  asleep  as  con- 
tentedly as  does  a  child  hugging  to  its  heart  its  latest 
gift,  be  it  ever  so  small. 

7 
The   morrow   brought   a   marvellous   dawn   with 


The  Man  293 

promise  of  good  weather.  All  were  early  a-stir, 
horses,  dogs,  and  humans  refreshed  by  their  three  days 
of  rest. 

"You  take  care  of  yourself,  Alie  dear.  I  can't  bear 
to  leave  you  here,  but,  of  course,  if  you  will  stay, 
you  will ;  that's  all  there  is  about  it.  Phil  and  I  will 
send  up  all  the  things  you  will  want  in  the  way  of  pro- 
vision, except  what  Mrs.  Dunstanes  says  they  have  in 
quantity  for  the  men.  And  you  have  wood  enough ; 
that's  one  comfort.  Good-by,  and  don't  forget  the 
mail  will  leave  once  in  six  weeks.  We  shall  worry  if  we 
don't  hear  regularly."  Her  husband  and  Collamore 
helped  her  into  the  sleigh  and  began  to  tuck  the  robes 
about  her. 

"I'm  so  glad,  Mr.  Collamore,  that  you  will  be  here 
at  least  a  part  of  the  time.  I  feel  better  leaving 
Alie — "  Her  husband  administered  a  surreptitious 
pinch  to  the  leg  that  was  handiest  as  he  put  the 
rugs  about  her  knees.  Mrs.  Carrolly  took  the  hint. 

"You  may  depend  on  me  to  do  what  I  can  while 
I'm  here,  Mrs.  Carrolly." 

"I  know  I  can,  Mr.  Collamore."  Evelyn  Carrolly 
smiled  sweetly  on  him,  despite  the  fact  that  she  was 
at  that  minute  furious  with  her  husband  for  taking  so 
drastic  a  method  to  cut  short  her  diplomacy.  "It's  a 
great  comfort  to  me,  whatever  it  may  be  to  Phil." 

So  the  last  good-bys  were  said,  Phil  Carrolly  calling 
out  from  the  sleigh  as  it  left  the  hut:  "Don't  forget, 
Alison,  to  have  that  canteen  for  the  men  ready  by 
the  time  Collamore  gets  back ;  he'll  need  it." 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Phil  Carrolly?",  said 
his  wife  in  surprise.  "  He  won't  want  to  use  that  — 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,  my 
dear ;  but  Alison  Doane  knows  what  I  mean." 


294  Out  of  the  Silences 

"Well,  I  never ! "  That  was  all  Mrs.  Carrolly  said 
for  a  moment;  then  she  spoke  quite  irrelevantly: 
"Well,  I,  for  one,  am  thankful  to  be  alone  with  you 
again,  Phil.  Three  days  without  a  single  minute  to 
talk  to  you  privately  in  was  almost  more  than  I  could 
stand."  She  snuggled  cosily  up  to  her  husband,  that 
is,  as  well  as  her  bundled-up  condition  would  permit, 
and  said  guilelessly : 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Phil  dear  —  do  you 
think  it  will  be  a  go  between  those  two  ?  " 

Whereupon  Philip  Carrolly  groaned  and  shouted  in 
the  same  breath.     There  was  no  evading  Evelyn,  not 
on  the  subject  of  matrimony. 
8 

Very  quietly  Robert  Collamore  manoeuvred  with 
an  Indian's  skill  to  give  him  a  moment  alone  with  the 
woman  he  loved,  just  one  minute.  The  Dunstanes 
went  into  the  house.  The  good-bys  had  all  been  said. 
Alison,  fully  dressed  for  an  early  walk,  —  she  wanted 
to  see  the  sun  rise  over  the  dark  wooded  shores  of  the 
lake,  for  the  dawn  promised  something  of  unusual 
beauty,  —  turned  first  to  the  cabin  with  a  sense  of 
ownership.  She  wanted  to  take  just  one  peek  from 
that  small  window  within,  to  see  if  it  gave  the  full 
effect  of  the  dawn  all  adown  the  lake. 

Robert  Collamore,  having  driven  a  few  rods,  left 
his  cariole,  and  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  cabin. 
She  turned  quickly  from  the  window,  as  he  entered 
saying : 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  are  doing  —  seeing  it  all, 
aren't  you,  just  as  it  will  look  a  month  from  now?" 

"You're  right,  but  how  do  you  know,  not  being  a 
woman?" 

"Oh,  I  have  a  way  of  knowing  unknowable  things ; 


The  Man  295 

I  learned  it  from  my  Indians.  I  just  wanted  to  know 
if  there  are  any  commissions  for  me  in  Montreal  — 
it's  the  place  to  get  things." 

"It's  awfully  kind  of  you  to  think  of  that.  Indeed 
there  are,  and  I  forgot  to  tell  Phil.  I  want  a  few 
books  about  this  country,  this  place,  anything  to  make 
my  ignorance  less  dense,  and  twelve  yards  of  turkey- 
red  cotton  cloth,  if  you  can  get  it.  Thank  you  so 
much." 

For  a  moment  his  masculine  bewilderment  over  his 
last  commission  showed  plainly. 

She  offered  her  hand,  risking,  as  she  thought,  a 
good  deal  after  his  ignoring  of  her  cordial  greeting  at 
the  Old  Lake  Post.  The  little  dawn-filled  cabin  was 
at  that  moment  heaven  to  the  man  who  stood  be- 
fore her,  showing,  however,  nothing  of  such  environ- 
ment in  his  face;  but  he  took  her  hand  in  a  firm 
clasp.  Then  it  was  that  Alison  caught  a  look  of  the 
"boy"  in  the  forest  hut;  the  features  were  slightly 
drawn,  the  expression  set  —  and  she  almost  told  him 
of  it. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said ;  "  I  am  looking  forward  already 
to  Christmas  in  this  little  cabin."  He  turned  and  left 
the  hut. 

"You  shall  have  one  that  you  will  remember  with 
Evelyn's  tea,"  she  called  after  him.  Without  think- 
ing she  waved  her  hand  as  she  did  years  ago  to  him 
when,  from  his  pony's  back,  he  watched  the  little 
cavalcade  depart  from  the  Hungarians'  hut  and  enter 
on  the  trail.  The  mere  moving  motion  of  her  hand 
made  a  sudden  thought-connection.  Her  face  was 
illumined  by  that  lightning  flash  of  memory.  Again 
she  waved  her  hand  to  him  as  the  dogs  started  on  the 
run. 


296  Out  of  the  Silences 

"Good-by,  good-by,"  she  called  again,  and  under 
her  breath  she  added,  "Little  Owl." 

If  only  he  might  have  heard.  He  looked  back  at 
her.  The  clear-ringing  voice,  the  movement  of  the 
hand,  caused  him  the  same  confusion  of  thought  that 
Kinni-kinnik  had  experienced.  Out  of  that  confusion 
a  haunting  memory  gradually  denned  itself  clearly 
in  his  consciousness  —  and  the  month  of  his  absence 
seemed  to  him  eternal  in  its  length. 

THE  SPRINGS  OF  LIFE 
i 

"  The  days  are  full,  full  to  overflowing  with  all  sorts 
of  things  to  do,"  Alison  wrote  to  Evelyn  Carrolly 
after  three  weeks  in  the  northern  wilderness.  "I 
was  never  busier  in  my  life,  not  even  when  there  was 
a  rush  of  department  work  in  the  old  days  in  Wash- 
ington and  I  was  a  slave  to  deadly  monotony.  I  feel 
so  free  at  last,  Evelyn.  If  these  three  weeks  set  the 
pace  for  the  rest  of  the  winter,  it  will  have  gone  before 
I  am  ready  to  welcome  the  spring  which  conies  so  late 
here  —  in  June ! 

"Tell  Phil,  with  my  love,  that  the  hut  ('A.  D.  Asso- 
ciation') is  quite  another  place  from  the  ramshackle 
affair  he  found  on  arrival.  We  expect  some  of  the 
teams  to-morrow  and  the  mail  is  due  next  week.  I 
do  so  hope  it  will  be  here  before  Christmas. 

"Two  of  the  men  are  very  clever  with  their  tools 
and  have  made  me  two  easy  chairs  out  of  some  empty 
hogsheads.  One  quarter  of  a  hogshead  sawed  off 
about  twenty  inches  from  the  bottom,  and  canvas 
and  burlap  —  packing  remnants  —  stretched  and 
fastened  on  securely  for  seats.  They  are  saving  all 
the  feathers  from  the  winter  game  for  me  to  make 


The  Man  297 

some  cushions.     They  offer  everything  in  their  power 
to  'help  along.'"  .     .     . 

"The  second  biggest  stove  is  in  my  cabin  and  works 
beautifully.  Of  course,  I  have  only  tested  it  to 
warmth-giving  at  17  below  this  morning ;  but  it  gives 
promise  of  great  comfort  at  40  below.  .  .  . 

"I  will  write  you  about  my  own  cabin  when 
the  teams  have  come  up  and  brought  the  things 
I  know  you  and  Phil  have  sent.  I  do  hope 
you  have  put  in  an  oilcloth  for  my  table.  I  forgot 
to  put  it  on  the  list ;  and  it's  just  like  you,  Evelyn 
dear,  to  send  me  as  substitute  a  square  linen  center- 
piece and  a  dozen  doilies  in  Madeira  drawn  work  1 
Now,  isn't  it? 

"Good-night;  and  I'm  glad  you've  been  here  to 
know  how  good  these  nights  are,  how  sound  and  sweet- 
sleep-filled.  I  don't  forget  how  you  pinched  me  wide 
awake,  early  on  one  of  those  three  mornings,  just  to 
remind  me  of  the  fact  that  we  hadn't  slept  together 
since  we  were  young  girls ;  to  whisper  some  of  your 
matrimonial  nonsense  about  Phil,  and  declare  you 
could  not  have  believed  it  possible  for  you  to  sleep  in 
such  conditions  so  soundly  and  straight  through  the 
night.  Oh,  Evelyn,  Evelyn  Carrolly  — 

"  I  hear  the  teams !  And  Mrs.  Dunstanes  is  calling 
to  me.  Good-by,  love  to  you  both,  and  more  of  it 
after  I  see  what  you  have  sent  up  to  high  latitudes. 

"Alie. 

"  P.  S.  Be  sure  to  send  all  the  papers  you  can  by 
every  mail.  Although  we  are  so  many  thousands  of 
miles  from  entrenched  battlefield  and  mine-strewn  sea, 
we  are  impatient  for  news  —  all  of  us.  It  is  getting 
under  the  surface  so,  here  in  Canada,  —  this  horrible 
war." 


298  Out  of  the  Silences 

2 

Any  man  in  this  northern  wilderness  of  snow  and 
ice,  bitter  cold,  and  cruel  winds,  be  he  trapper,  hunter, 
Indian,  half-breed,  explorer,  pioneer,  settler,  or  trav- 
eller, knows  what  it  means  to  him  to  see  in  any 
stretch  of  a  hundred  miles  along  the  ice-bound  high- 
ways the  light  of  a  camp  fire,  or  the  smoke  from  a 
few  poor  wigwams,  or  a  settler's  cabin.  The  light, 
the  smoke,  spell  for  him  safety  for  another,  night, 
freedom  from  the  danger  of  being  frozen  into  uncon- 
sciousness. 

3 

The  mail  arrived  in  the  twilight  of  Christmas  Eve. 
The  two  men,  Indian  and  white,  had  encountered 
storms  —  heavy  winds  and  low  temperature  follow- 
ing an  unusual  fall  of  snow  for  that  region  —  all  the 
way  up  from  Groundhouse.  Both  men  and  dogs 
were  worn  with  buffeting  such  weather  conditions. 
When  Robert  Collamore  saw  the  first  light  on  the 
bluff,  Alison's  lamp  she  had  set  in  the  window 
in  the  hope  of  the  coming  of  "Little  Owl"  and 
the  mail,  and  knew  by  its  position  that  it  was 
from  her  cabin,  he  was  conscious  of  a  profound 
sense  of  thankfulness  that  he  had  been  permitted 
to  live  to  experience  one  such  moment.  To  him 
that  light  was  a  beacon. 

Out  of  the  bitter  hardships  of  his  younger  life,  out 
of  the  turmoil,  the  stress,  the  fighting  arena  of  his 
later  life,  he  was  experiencing  what  it  is  to  have  been 
led  mysteriously,  but  none  the  less  surely,  along  what 
had  seemed  to  him  a  blind  trail  into  a  little  realm  of 
peace  and  home  and  love  —  and  all  this  coming  to 
him  just  before  entering  the  great  arena  of  a  world 
war  in  order  to  wage  mortal  combat ! 


The  Man  299 

The  lamplight  shining  from  the  snowy  bluff  was  a 
symbol  to  him  of  all  this. 

Little  wonder  then,  that  as  he  stood  at  the  cabin 
door,  which  was  flung  wide  in  welcome,  he  could  say 
nothing;  only  take  the  woman's  two  warm  hands, 
outstretched  in  welcome,  in  his  cold  ones,  and  look  at 
her  as  she  drew  him  into  the  cabin  and  closed  the 
door.  It  was  Alison  who  did  the  talking  for  a  while. 

"You're  just  about  frozen !"  she  exclaimed,  setting 
one  of  the  hogshead  easy  chairs  away  from  the  stove. 
"  So  I  can't  let  you  sit  too  near  the  fire  until  you  are 
thawed  out  a  bit ;  it's  not  safe,  you  know.  And  the 
very  first  thing  a  cup  of  tea,  and  warmth  for  the  inner 
man,  even  if  I  can't  make  tea  like  Evelyn.  One  cup  ? 
What  am  I  talking  about?  I  mean  three  cups  and 
two  lumps  in  each.  That's  right,  isn't  it  ?  How  will 
this  do  for  a  merger?" 

She  held  out  a  tin  quart  cup,  and  busied  herself 
with  making  the  tea,  wondering,  meanwhile,  if  his 
cheeks  and  chin,  could  be  really  frozen,  he  was  so 
quiet.  No  word  as  yet!  Then  she  thought  of  the 
"boy  in  the  hut"  and,  in  part,  understood. 

Mr.  Dunstanes,  coming  in  at  that  moment  with 
hearty  handclasp  and  heartier  words  of  welcome,  took 
in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

"  If  Long  John  weren't  an  Indian  and  a  Cree,  Colla- 
more,  he  would  be  in  a  worse  condition  than  he  is. 
My  wife  is  tending  to  him  and  serving  him  in  about 
the  same  way  Miss  Doane  is  serving  you.  But  he  is 
thawing  out ;  you  will  in  time." 

Alison's  talk  still  ran  on  like  a  brook. 

"The  Dunstanes  have  been  lovely  to  me,  Mr.  Colla- 
more,  and  they've  been  working  like  Trojans  to  get  the 
loft  ready  for  you.  They've  had  only  a  week  since 


300  Out  of  the  Silences 

the  teams  came  up.  Phil  and  Evelyn  sent  such  a  lot 
of  nice  things.  They've  put  up  another  stove,  Phil 
sent,  in  your  attic,  and  what  I  call  a  wilderness  table 
for  your  work.  All  the  things  were  marked  as  from 
both,  but  you  could  tell  Evelyn's  shopping  from  Phil's 
with  your  eyes  shut.  A  man  never  buys  the  same 
things  a  woman  does ;  so  I  know  the  tea-kettle  you'll 
find  on  your  stove  is  from  Evelyn.  It  must  be  filled 
once  in  two  hours,  to  provide  the  advertised  '  continu- 
ous hot  water  service.'  And  one  end  of  the  loft  is 
filled  with  firewood.  I  have  added  some  birch  bark 
of  my  own  garnering;  it's  to  start  your  fires  if  ever 
you  have  the  courage  to  let  one  go  out.  /  tell  the 
Dunstanes  they  will  spoil  a  good  expert." 

"How  about  you,  Miss  Doane?"  said  Mr.  Dun- 
stanes. "Seems  to  me  you  are  doing  your  share  to 
effect  the  change."  He  watched  her  pour  out  a  quart 
cup  of  steaming  tea,  and  drop  six  lumps  into  it  before 
she  offered  it  to  Collamore  who  took  it  and  drank 
eagerly. 

He  looked  up  over  the  rim.  "I  thank  you,"  was 
all  he  could  say. 

"Merely  doing  the  honors  of  my  new  home  to  wel- 
come a  wayfarer,  Mr.  Collamore ;  don't  let  the  tea 
spoil  your  appetite  for  supper.  The  Dunstanes  are 
coming  to  celebrate  my  first  Christmas  in  the  wilder- 
ness, and  we  count,  of  course,  on  you.  When  did 
you  eat  last?"  At  which  practical  question  both 
men  smiled,  and  Alison,  perceiving  the  relaxing  of  the 
muscles  in  Collamore's  face,  sighed  relief.  At  least, 
he  was  not  frozen  into  silence. 

"Come  along  with  me,  Collamore,  now  you  have 
finished  your  tea,  and  thaw  out  gradually  in  your 
attic.  My  wife  is  waiting  for  you  rather  impatiently, 


The  Man  301 

she  wants  you  to  see  the  old  loft ;  and  be  sure  —  this 
is  a  marital  hint  for  which  I  charge  no  commission  for 
your  future  use  —  to  express  your  highest  approval 
of  her  efforts.  Site  did  it.  A  man  would  have  let 
another  man  take  his  chances  and  bunk  in  where  he 
could ;  but  a  woman  takes  no  chances  with  a  man's 
comfort,  that  is,  if  she  is  the  real  article  like  my  wife." 
He  turned  at  the  door  before  opening  it.  "We'll  all 
be  in  for  supper  when  Collamore  is  thoroughly  thawed 
out,  Miss  Doane,  and  we'll  bring  in  the  mail ;  there 
is  a  big  pile  of  it.  My  wife  is  sorting  it  out  now." 

4 

It  was  Robert  Collamore's  first  real  Christmas. 
He  recalled  dimly  an  attempt  at  one  when  he  was  a 
small  boy  living  with  his  mother  and  uncle  on  the 
sheep  ranch ;  but  all  details  were  blurred.  He  knew 
this  Christmas  would  live  distinct  in  his  memory  till 
the  end,  for  a  woman's  hand  was  at  the  helm  of  all 
the  preparation,  and  that  woman  the  one  he  loved. 

No  item  of  Christmassy  importance  was  forgotten, 
even  to  a  stocking  for  each  of  the  occupants  of  the 
hut  and  cabin  as  well  as  for  each  man  at  the  plant. 
The  teamsters  were  not  forgotten,  nor  the  Indians, 
including  Long  John  who  carried  back  tales  of  the 
"medicine- woman"  to  Kinni-kinnik  and  Carmastic. 

When  it  was  past,  Collamore  settled  down  to  the 
close  exacting  work  in  his  special  line.  He  preferred 
to  cook  for  himself  in  the  men's  canteen ;  he  was 
used  to  living  from  his  own  base  in  his  years  of 
knocking  about,  and  he  liked  the  independence.  But 
he  accepted  the  Dunstanes'  hospitality  of  the  loft  for 
sleeping  purposes.  His  evenings  he  spent  between 
the  two  huts,  but  mostly  with  Alison.  They  were  his 
refreshment,  these  evenings,  his  recreation,  because 


302  Out  of  the  Silences 

he  was  with  her  —  and  his  time  was  short.  The 
second  week  of  February  was  set  for  his  return  with 
Long  John  after  the  delivery  of  the  second  mail. 

The  Dunstanes,  discerning  which  way  the  wind  was 
blowing,  tactfully  aided  and  abetted  him  by  ignoring 
his  preference  for  the  cabin. 

5 

He  was  telling  her  one  evening  as  he  smoked  tran- 
quilly, both  heart  and  soul  taking  their  ease,  of  some 
of  the  episodes  of  his  life  in  the  Turtle  Mountains  and 
among  them  of  his  fast  in  the  nest  in  the  treetop,  of 
his  dream  and  its  "medicine."  He  dwelt  especially 
on  the  importance  Carmastic  attached  to  a  man's 
"medicine,"  and  explained  it  to  her  as  the  old  medi- 
cine-man had  explained  it  to  him. 

She  listened  eagerly,  thoughtfully;  then,  at  last, 
she  put  a  question : 

"And  what  was  the  dream?" 

"That  I  can't  teU." 

"You  mean  you  are  superstitious?"  She  chaffed 
him  a  bit  on  his  Indian  superstitions,  all  of  which  he 
accepted  good-naturedly;  but  she  knew  he  evaded 
giving  her  any  satisfactory  answer. 

"You  can't  help  being  affected  somewhat  by  all 
that  mass  of  Indian  tradition  and  lore  if  you  live 
with  them  as  I  did.  It  is  all  so  wonderful  and  never 
to  be  learned  by  a  white  man  —  all  symbolism.  And 
Turtle  Mountain  is  a  paradise  of  Indian  lore.  Do  you 
know,  I  used  to  call  it  my  road  to  Paradise,  that  ap- 
proach to  the  Mountains?  It  was  so  changed  when 
I  went  through  there  four  months  ago.  The  intrusion 
of  the  Present  was  everywhere  in  evidence  —  even  to 
a  possible  motor  service !  That  almost  knocked  my 
Indian  past  into  a  cocked  hat." 


The  Man  303 

She  did  not  press  him  further,  although  she  would 
have  given  much  to  know  what  it  was  he  dreamed, 
and  what  its  significance  might  be  to  him. 

"So  you  too  have  had  a  road  to  Paradise?" 

"Yes;  did  you?" 

"  Oh,  didn't  I !  Away  back  in  my  babyhood,  pretty 
nearly." 

"Tell  me  about  it,  will  you?" 

"You  tell  first." 

He  smiled.  Often  they  were  as  boy  and  girl 
together.  That  was  a  part  of  her  charm. 

"You  see,  it  was  only  my  road;  the  Turtle  Moun- 
tains didn't  prove  to  be  a  paradise,  for  Jane  Plunket's 
tongue  could  make  a  purgatory,  or  worse,  out  of  any 
paradise.  However,  I  had  more  than  three  years  of 
grace  with  my  saddle-maker  before  Jane  put  in  her 
appearance." 

"But  didn't  it  lead  to  some  kind  of  paradise?" 

"Yes;  did  yours?" 

"Yes,"  she  hesitated,  "in  a  way  it  did." 

"That  sounds  dubious.  Any  angel  with  the  flam- 
ing sword  to  bar  your  entrance?" 

"Not  exactly;  I  think  a  bolt  was  drawn  instead. 
What  did  you  do  after  Jane  came  on  the  scene?" 

"I  cleared  out  as  quickly  as  I  could.  But  I  had 
one  winter  in  my  own  little  lean-to  — " 

"  No  !  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  had  a  lean-to 
—  like  mine?" 

"  I  did ;  and  one  that's  next  best  to  this." 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  do." 

He  told  her  of  those  months  on  his  own  hook,  as 
he  expressed  it ;  of  the  growing  sense  of  isolation  in 
the  mountains,  of  his  burning  desire  to  get  away  from 
it  all  and  see  the  world  in  his  own  way. 


304  Out  of  the  Silences 

"  I  was  so  dead  lonely  that  winter.  You  see,  I  had 
a  dog,"  —  Alison  kept  her  eyes  on  her  knitting,  — 
"  and  she  died  in  the  October  before  I  moved  into  my 
lean-to.  She  had  been  with  me  all  the  time  in  the 
mountains.  I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  really 
lonesome  while  she  was  with  me,  and  she  was  always 
with  me,  day  and  night." 

"  What  happened  to  her?" 

"  The  saddle-maker  and  I  set  out  to  see  some- 
thing of  the  world  over  Minnesota  way.  You  see, 
Jane  and  he  had  had  a  tiff,  a  three-years-long,  English- 
Indian  huff,  and  he  thought  it  was  about  time  to  make 
up  Of  course  I  took  the  bitch.  She  had  a  litter 
while  we  were  there — " 

"  What  part  of  Minnesota  was  that?" 

"  Not  far  from  Bemidji,  about  thirty  miles. 
Why?" 

It  came  rather  suddenly.  Alison  Doane  did  some 
thinking  before  she  answered.  Meanwhile,  with  a 
woman's  wile,  she  counted  aloud  some  stitches  on  the 
turn  of  the  heel. 

"  Because  my  father  owned  some  pine  lands 
near  there,  years  ago  when  I  was  a  young  girl; 
and  I  have  always  had  an  interest  in  that  part 
of  the  State." 

"  Do  you  own  them  now?" 

"  No.     What  about  the  bitch  and  her  puppies?" 

He  smiled.  "  My  saddle-maker  always  said  I  was 
born  wanting  my  own  way,  but  I  haven't  always  had 
it  just  the  same.  You  see,  the  mother  of  those 
puppies  knew  a  thing  or  two  more  than  I  did  about 
what  she  wanted  to  do  with  them,  and  how  she  wanted 
to  bring  them  up.  But  I  was  thirteen  at  the  time, 
and  knew  I  knew  better.  So  I  tried  to  show  her 


The  Man  305 

where  she  ought  to  keep  the  puppies ;  naturally  she 
objected.  I  tried  to  have  my  way  with  her  for  three 
days  in  succession.  Then,  because  she  disobeyed  me 
and  did  with  her  own  what  she  knew  to  be  the  right 
thing,  I  got  mad  and  punished  her  —  struck  her  — 
and  I  had  never  laid  hand  on  her  in  punishment 
before ;  she  had  never  done  anything  to  deserve  it." 
He  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"I  never  could  understand  why  she  left  —  ran 
away,  hid  herself  in  the  deep  woods  or  in  some  place 
where  I  and  none  of  the  Indians  could  rind  her.  I 
think  my  boy's  heart  pretty  nearly  broke  as  the  weeks 
went  by  and  no  dog." 

"Did  you  never  find  her?" 

"Yes;  three  weeks  after  she  disappeared  I  found 
her  in  a  hut,  part  of  a  loggers'  camp  not  ten  miles  from 
the  Indian  village  where  Jane  and  Plunket  lived  for  a 
month  or  two  when  they  had  made  up.  The  dog  was 
dead  when  I  got  there."  Alison  was  hoping  he  would 
go  further ;  but  he  said  nothing  more. 

"It  seems  to  me  easy  enough  to  understand  why 
she  left  you." 

"  Why  ?  "    He  looked  up  a  little  surprised. 

"Because  she  loved  you  —  and  you  struck  her." 

"I  suppose  that's  the  psychology  of  it.  But  I  did 
penance.  I  had  to  bring  up  those  five  puppies  by 
hand  that  winter.  I  kept  Bully,  one  of  the  five,  for 
years ;  then  he  died,  and  I  had  nothing  but  a  wolf 
cub  for  companion." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Alison  spoke  almost 
abruptly. 

"Why  it's  this  way :  a  man  has  to  have  something 
to  love  or  he  returns  to  the  type,  you  know ;  and  I 
was  alone  for  some  months  in  a  wilderness  to  which 


306  Out  of  the  Silences 

this  about  here  is  civilization.  The  mother  I  had  to 
shoot ;  the  cub  I  saved.  That  was  a  cub  !  I  knew 
the  bitch  was  my  shadow,  but  the  cub  considered 
himself  literally  a  part  of  me.  It  was  bitterly  cold 
that  year  and  he  was  brought  up,  you  might  say,  in- 
side my  shirt.  Anyway  he  felt  he  belonged  there,  and 
he  went  with  me  wherever  the  shirt  went  —  and  that 
went  most  everywhere  I  went,  for  it  was  the  only  one 
I  had. 

"But  in  time  he  forgot  that  he  was  growing  up, 
and  when  the  shirt  couldn't  hold  him  any  longer  I 
made  a  sort  of  kangaroo's  pouch  of  skins,  and  hung  it 
round  my  neck  in  front.  He  occupied  that  till  he 
outgrew  it.  After  that  he  had  to  stay  in  the  dugout 
—  door  fast  —  which  did  not  please  his  cubship. 
Honestly  I  could  hear  him  howl  and  bark  a  mile  off 
of  a  still  night." 

"What  was  his  name?" 

"He  was  such  a  high-cock-o'-lorum  of  a  cub  that  I 
called  him  Solomon ;  Sol,  for  short.  It  fitted  him  all 
right." 

Alison  laughed.  "However  did  you  happen  on 
that  name?" 

"Oh,  I  found  something  about  a  certain  king  in  a 
part  of  an  old  book  I  brought  with  me  to  the  moun- 
tains. It  was  the  only  book  I  had  there  for  years. 
Once  I  got  hold  of  a  regular  dime  hair-raiser  some  one, 
surveyor  or  trader,  had  dropped  on  the  trail ;  but  it 
couldn't  thrill  me  like  the  stories  in  my  book.  I 
think  you  would  write  that  with  a  capital  B." 

"You  mean  the  Bible?" 

He  nodded.  "Yes,  it's  a  great  book,  as  my  saddle- 
maker  used  to  say,  although  he  didn't  read  in  it. 
But  his  mother  used  to,  when  he  was  a  kid,  and  I've 


The  Man  307 

always  fancied  that  had  something  to  do  with  his 
respect  for  it." 

Alison  Doane  was  silent,  intent  apparently  on  her 
knitting;  but  she  was  not  counting  this  time.  She 
was  thinking  what  a  many-sided  man  was  this  Robert 
Collamore.  No  wonder  the  saddle-maker  found  him 
interesting. 

"  How  long  did  you  keep  Solomon  ?  "  she  said  at  last. 

"Until  he  grew  too  large  to  have  around.  He  used 
to  put  his  two  paws  about  my  neck  and  hang  on  for 
dear  life  —  no  small  weight  —  his  hind  legs  dragging 
on  the  ground.  And  then  he  reverted  to  his  type. 
It  wouldn't  have  been  safe  to  keep  him  any  longer; 
but  he  tided  me  over  those  nine  months.  Now  tell 
me  something  about  your  road  to  Paradise  —  that  is, 
if  you  will." 

"Were  you  ever  in  Annapolis?" 

"Yes,  once,  several  years  ago." 

"Then  you  don't  know  the  old  Yard,  I  mean  before 
the  new  buildings  were  put  up?" 

"  No,  that  was  long  before  I  made  acquaintance  with 
civilization." 

"I  was  born  there.  Evelyn's  father  was  county 
judge  and  my  father  was  clerk  of  his  courts.  You 
remember  the  old  gate?  That  is  still  there." 

"Yes,  distinctly." 

"My  road  to  Paradise  led  through  that  gate.  In- 
side there  were  long  avenues  of  great  trees,  and 
'Officers'  Row',  and  a  glimpse  of  the  Chesapeake,  the 
old  sea  wall,  and  the  fascinating  ships  beyond." 

"And  you  used  to  sail  away  on  those  ships  to  won- 
derful lands,  didn't  you?" 

"Now,  how  do  you  know  that?"  Her  face  grew 
bright  and  flushed  with  the  recollection. 


308  Out  of  the  Silences 

"Because  you're  the  kind  that  makes  just  such 
voyages.  I  did,  too,  when  I  used  to  read  in  my  old 
fragment  of  a  Book  about  the  '  ships  of  Tarshish '  — 
which,  I  take  it,  the  real  Solomon  commandeered  — 
bringing  in  their  cargoes :  'gold  and  silver,  ivory  and 
apes,  and  peacocks.'  I'd  never  seen  so  much  as  the 
tail  of  an  ape  or  peacock,  nor  a  picture  of  them,  but 
my  head  used  to  swim  reading  about  such  things.  I 
was  drunk  with  the  joy  of  imagining  them,  especially 
the  apes  and  peacocks." 

"Then  you  know."  She  spoke  joyously.  "I'll  tell 
you  some  more.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  within  the 
Gate  the  bugles  were  always  blowing  clear,  beautiful 
notes,  and  there  was  some  sort  of  music  all  the  time, 
of  bird  or  band.  It  was  such  a  joy  to  me  to  stand 
there  beside  it  with  my  old  nurse,  'Phemie,  and  watch 
what  passed  through  it:  cadets,  and  middies,  and 
sailors,  and  officers  in  their  blue  and  gold,  and,  every 
June,  bridal  processions  that  used  to  fare  so  merrily 
from  old  Saint  Anne's  to  the  Yard.  I  can  see,  even 
now,  all  that  shimmer  of  bride-white  and  the  glitter 
of  epaulettes  and  swords.  I  can  hear  the  music  this 
very  minute,  here  in  this  wilderness  silence."  She 
paused,  seemingly  lost  in  remembrance. 

"But  there  was  one  great  mystery,  so  solemn,  so 
over-shadowing  to  my  child's  soul.  I  used  to  watch 
the  long  train  of  the  military  funeral,  arms  reversed, 
passing  through  that  Gate  to  the  sound  of  muffled 
drums.  In  a  way,  that  shadow  has  never  been 
lifted;  I  can't  account  for  that.  But  my  road  to 
Paradise,"  — •  she  looked  at  him  with  a  serene  smile 
and  quiet  eyes,  —  "only  led  through  that  Gate.  The 
road  itself  was  a  long,  long  road." 

"Tell  me  more,  will  you?"    Robert  Collamore's 


The  Man  309 

voice  was  deeply  earnest.  But  she  answered  rather 
lightly  —  these  were  the  sudden  changes  to  which  he 
could  not  easily  accustom  himself : 

"That  was  only  one  station  on  the  way  that  I  have 
told  you  about.  You  know  there  must  be  just  as 
many  '  stations '  on  the  road  to"  Paradise  as  to  Calvary, 
don't  you  ?  " 

The  man  simply  nodded  assent.  He  knew  now 
that  all  the  lightness  covered  depths  of  experience. 
He  knew  she  was  like  himself  in  this. 

"No,  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  my  next  station  on 
the  road  till  you  have  told  me  yours  —  if  you  will?" 
she  said,  imitating  his  tone  towards  her. 

He  laughed  out  at  that.  "Oh,  well,  if  you're  going 
to  'trade'  about  experiences  on  the  road,  I'll  surely 
meet  you  halfway.  Perhaps  two  words  will  tell  you 
more  about  my  boyhood  and  manhood  than  anything 
I  can  say;  they  are  'hardship'  and  'endurance.' 
They  cover  many,  many  years." 

"May  I  know  something  of  those  years?" 

He  hesitated  to  speak. 

"I  am  wondering  if  the  telling  could  give  you  any 
real  idea,  any  satisfaction.  A  man  goes  down  into 
the  arena  of  life  to  fight.  A  woman  —  I  can't  con- 
ceive of  her  knowing  anything  about  such  fighting." 

"We  women  don't  always  make  our  fight  in  public 
like  men,  but  we  have  our  struggle,  many  of  us,  just 
the  same.  We're  human,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  you  don't  fight  in  our  way. 
Mine  has  been  a  long  struggle  to  get  on  my  feet." 

She  might  have  retorted,  "So  has  mine",  but  she 
knew  it  was  no  time  to  speak.  She  was  hoping  he 
would  be  more  definite  about  himself. 

"I  don't  believe  you  can  understand  it  even  if  I 


3IO  Out  of  the  Silences 

tell  you.  — To  lie  in  a  snowdrift  for  warmth  and  to  save 
yourself  from  freezing ;  to  go  hungry  rather  than  beg ; 
to  starve,  almost,  at  times ;  to  succumb,  exhausted, 
parched  with  thirst  in  the  desert ;  to  live  alone  with 
the  cattle  on  the  range;  to  round  them  up  in  the 
bitter  weather ;  to  look  to  them  for  companionship,  no 
other  available ;  to  *  cruise '  alone  in  a  forest  wilder- 
ness, perhaps  for  months ;  to  bunk  in  with  all  sorts ; 
make  your  bed  in  a  manger,  or  a  dugout,  or  trench. 
Don't  think  I'm  whimpering  about  life.  It's  only  that 
I  can't  think  of  you  as  knowing  anything  about  such 
an  experience.  I'm  wondering  if  I  had  better  say 
much  about  it.  It  isn't  my  way." 

"I  know  it  isn't."     She  spoke  understandingly. 

"But,  at  least,  my  life  was  a  free  one.  I  was  my  own 
master.  I  could  go  when  and  where  I  pleased,  but 
always  with  the  end  in  view  to  get  enough  for  mere 
existence.  Still  there  were  joys,  good  ones  too.  I 
actually  used  to  enjoy  the  prospect  of  a  stampede. 
Sometimes  the  cattle  become  terrified,  you  know, 
panic-stricken,  and  a  stampede  threatens.  A  severe 
thunderstorm  will  do  that.  Or  a  few  of  them  get 
emotional ;  think  something  unseen  is  going  to  hurt 
them,  and  communicate  their  fear  to  the  others. 
At  such  times  I  used  to  measure  myself,  had  to, 
against  the  brute  herd.  It  was  the  psychology  of 
the  thing  that  was  so  intensely  interesting  to  me, 
although  I  knew  no  more  of  book  psychology  than  the 
cattle  I  attempted  to  quiet. 

"I  can  hear  even  now  their  uneasy  stirring  at  the 
approach  of  a  storm ;  I  can  see  the  movements,  I 
used  to  call  them  'rudderless/  Then  I  used  to  go  in 
and  out  among  them,  whistling  low  and  serenely. 
They  knew  my  presence ;  the  human  unit  comforted 


The  Man  311 

them.  Some  one,  something  was  there  of  power  to  be 
a  rudder  for  them.  Then  when  the  tempest  of  the 
plains  broke,  with  lightning  zigzagging,  blue,  —  Gee, 
what  lightning !  —  and  the  thunder  literally  crashing 
to  earth,  as  if  its  mere  sound  could  crush  us  all,  man 
and  beasts,  it  was  a  man's  eye,  alert,  commanding, 
hypnotic,  his  low  cool  whistle,  in  the  dead  silence  be- 
tween the  thunder  roll  and  another  crash,  that  held 
the  hundreds  there  where  they  belonged  —  kept  them 
from  stampeding.  I  rarely  had  to  shoot  to  prevent 
a  stampede." 

Alison  Doane  began  to  understand  what  he  meant 
when  he  said  she  could  not  enter  into  such  experience 
as  his.  This  was  a  man's  experience;  it  belonged 
with  the  man-force  in  creation. 

"But  I'm  talking  you  blind,"  he  said  half  apolo- 
getically. 

She  had  dropped  the  stocking  into  her  lap,  her  hands 
were  folded  over  it.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  man 
whom  she  knew  as  a  little  lad.  In  her  mind's  eye  she 
saw  him  again,  lifting  his  dog  to  his  shoulders ;  saw 
him  leave  the  hut ;  lay  the  animal  across  the  pony, 
fling  himself  on  and  disappear,  with  Long  John  follow- 
ing. What  a  life  had  been  his!  As  she  did  not 
answer,  he  spoke  again. 

"Now  for  your  second  station;  fair  play,  you 
know." 

She  thought  about  it  a  moment  before  speaking. 
This  man  was  no  strangef ;  she  had  known  him  ever 
since  she  was  sixteen  —  at  least,  she  felt  she  had. 
She  decided  she  could  trust  him.  Neither  would  he 
think  she  was  "whimpering"  about  life. 

"I  lost  my  mother  when  I  was  eleven,  and  my 
father  when  I  was  nearly  eighteen.  Evelyn  was  all 


312  Out  of  the  Silences 

I  had  left  of  blood  relations.  She  offered  me  her 
home,  but  I  wanted  to  live  my  life  in  my  own  way  —  " 

"Same  here,"  he  said,  interrupting  her. 

"A  life  of  dependence  would  have  been  no  life  for 
me."  She  waited  a  minute,  hesitating  to  make  her 
decision.  Yes,  she  would  tell  him  all. 

"My  father  was  almost  obsessed  with  a  desire  to 
invest  his  small  property  in  this,  that,  and  the  other. 
There  were  bird-lime  men  aplenty  to  snare  him.  He 
was  always  telling  me  of  what  he  was  doing  to  pro- 
vide handsomely  for  me.  When  he  died  I  found  my- 
self the  inheritor  of  all  he  left  in  this  world  —  debts. 
They  amounted  to  nearly  ten  thousand  dollars." 

She  looked  at  him  almost  appealingly.  "You 
know,  they  say  the  greatest  thing  in  life  is  love ;  but 
isn't  there  one  thing  more  than  life  —  honor?" 

Collamore  was  too  moved  to  answer.  He  would 
not  show  her  how  much.  He  could  not  trust  his  voice 
at  just  that  moment ;  he  knew  it  would  shake.  He 
was  thinking  of  that  night  at  the  Old  Lake  Post  when 
he  trusted  this  woman  to  meet  him  with  the  same 
trust  he  had  in  her,  believing  her  ideals  to  be  the 
same.  How  she  was  living  up,  all^  unconsciously, 
to  that  trust ! 

"I  did  the  best  I  could.  I  qualified  for  a  position 
in  the  Treasury  Department  and  obtained  one.  Then 
I  told  my  father's  creditors  if  they  would  trust  me  I 
would,  in  time,  pay  them  with  interest.  They  did. 
I  paid  them  to  the  last  cent.  It  took  me  eighteen 
years  —  eighteen  years  out  of  my  girlhood  and  young 
womanhood. 

"  I  was  treasury  expert  for  ten  years  of  the  time. 
I  handled  money  —  mouldy,  chewed,  burnt-to-ashes, 
water-soaked  money,  and  redeemed  it  in  part,  bringing 


The  Man  313 

joy,  I  hope,  to  many  a  troubled  man  or  woman.  I 
worked  till  my  soul  loathed  the  sight,  the  sound,  of 
money  in  the  concrete.  I  worked  day  in  day  out  till 
I  thought  the  monotony  would  kill  me ;  then,"  she 
smiled  archly,  "/  stampeded,  all  by  myself.  You 
see,  in  reality,  I  was  a  herd,  a  herd  of  revolted  senti- 
ments, ideas,  outlooks.  I  had  been  in  the  strait- 
jacket  of  routine  for  all  those  years,  looking  forward 
to  the  time  when,  pensioned,  I  might  breathe  freely. 
It  took  courage  to  give  up  that  prospect. 

"I  remember  I  stood  at  an  upper  window  of  the 
Treasury  Building,  looking  into  space  as  I  thought, 
for  my  sight  was  turned  inwards  on  myself,  my 
trouble,  my  indecision;  and  suddenly  I  was  aware 
that  the  clouds,  which  had  settled  over  the  city,  were 
parting  and  above  them  and  through  them  the  top 
of  the  Monument  began  to  brighten  in  the  sunshine 
it  caught  and  held.  Somehow,  that  gave  me  courage 
to  act  and  act  at  once." 

:  She  took  a  long  breath.  The  man  opposite,  lean- 
ing forward,  his  arms  along  his  knees,  his  hands 
clasped  between  them,  involuntarily  drew  hi  his.  He, 
too,  felt  that  deliverance ;  in  the  light  of  it,  his  own 
experience  seemed  as  naught. 

"When  were  you  free?"  was  all  he  said. 

"About  six  months  ago.  I  had  saved  something 
out  of  those  years,  and  I  have  a  passion  for  out-of- 
doors  which  I  could  not  indulge  myself  in ;  I  used  to 
work  through  my  vacations  for  the  extra  money.  I 
felt  that  if  I  could  take  up  some  piece  of  land  in  Min- 
nesota at  a  reasonable  price,  I  could  have  a  little  home 
there  and,  at  least,  live.  After  I  knew  my  father  had 
invested  in  some  pine  lands  in  that  State,  I  hoped  to 
redeem  them  from  the  hands  of  others.  That  was 


314  Out  of  the  Silences 

not  to  be ;  but,  at  least,  I  could  see  them.  So  I  took 
the  proceeds  of  the  land,  eight  hundred  dollars, 
sloughed  off  my  old  working  skin  and  came  out  with 
my  cousins  to  Minnesota  where,  by  the  way,  I  stayed 
with  your  saddle-maker  a  whole  month  — " 

"  McGillie  told  me  you  did ;  Kinni-kinnik  told  him." 

"He  did?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  so?"  she  de- 
manded, taken  unawares. 

"Because  I  knew  if  I  waited  long  enough  you  would 
tell  me ;  it  comes  with  better  grace  from  you." 

She  began  to  wonder  if,  by  any  possibility,  he  could 
know  of  her  in  connection  with  that  episode  of  the 
dog  and  his  boyhood.  She  thought  not.  There  was 
no  way  of  his  knowing ;  the  saddle-maker  never  wrote 
letters,  and  Stella  knew  nothing  of  their  conversation. 
For  a  moment  she  thought  rapidly  both  in  a  circle 
and  a  straight  line  before  she  answered.  At  any  rate 
she  would  give  him  the  message.  She  played  for 
time  a  little. 

"  Your  saddle-maker  seemed  to  look  on  this  northern 
wilderness  from  the  Turtle  Mountains  to  Groundhouse 
as  bounded  by  you,  McGillie,  Kinni-kinnik,  and  all  his 
old  Indian  friends ;  and  as  he  had  told  me  about  all 
of  you,  and  I  told  him  I  would  try  to  look  up  Kinni- 
kinnik  at  the  New  Mission,  if  my  cousins  remained 
long  enough,  why  he  took  it  for  granted,  I  suppose, 
that  you,  too,  might  look  them  up.  He  said  you  were 
going  from  the  Turtle  Mountains  to  Ottawa,  and 
from  there  'north'  —  he  didn't  say  when  or  where; 
but  it  was  natural  enough  for  the  old  man  to  think  it 
possible  for  me  to  run  across  you  somewhere  on  my 
indefinite  travels,  as,"  she  added  with  a  glint  of  fun 
in  her  eyes,  "I  happened  to." 
.  "Happened?  Do  you  believe  in  chance?" 


The  Man  315 

It  was  an  unexpected  question,  put  abruptly  and  in 
no  particularly  gentle  tones.  It  quenched  all  the  fun. 
She  realized  she  must  answer  this  time  without 
subterfuge. 

"No." 

He  took  a  long  breath.     "I  feel  better." 

This  was  all  he  said,  and  left  the  woman  to  inter- 
pret his  words  as  she  might.  A  right  interpretation, 
in  such  case,  depends  very  generally  on  the  make- 
up—  character,  temperament,  and  depth  of  insight 
into  another's  character  and  temperament  —  of  the 
woman  to  whom  they  are  said. 

"Mr.  Plunket — ,"  she  began,  but  was  interrupted 
by  such  a  peal  of  laughter  that  she  looked  at  him  in 
amazement. 

"'Scuse  me,  but  I  never  in  all  my  life  heard  Bill 
Plunket  called  'Mister' ;  somehow  that's  a  misfit." 

"I  don't  see  why.  Of  course  I  couldn't  call  him 
'  Plunket '  or  '  Bill ' ;  and  what  is  more  I  didn't  want  to, 
for  if  ever  there  was  a  gentleman  in  this  world  he  is 
one."  Her  words  showed  slight  resentment  at  which 
Robert  Collamore  smiled. 

"Of  course  he  is.  God's  noblemen  are  always 
gentlemen.  But,  you  see,  being  bush-bred  and  range- 
bred,  I  never  associate  gentleman  with  'Mister.* 
The  man  who  is  a  man,  decent,  brave,  cool-headed, 
gentle,  honest,  a  good  fighter,  and  a  better  hater,  as 
well  as  an  all-round  good  comrade,  never  gets  'mis- 
tered' with  us.  It's  only  my  point  of  view,  however, 
and  I  mustn't  expect  you  to  share  it." 

It  was  Alison  Doane's  turn  to  smile.  "Just  give 
me  time  and  the  loan  of  your  range-bred  glasses  once 
in  a  while,  and  I  think  I  shall  get  it.  Anyway,  Mr. 
Plunket  —  and  my  saddle-maker  — " 


316  Out  of  the  Silences 

"Not  yours ;  he  is  mine;  always  has  been  mine." 

She  knew  he  was  teasing.  "And  you'll  let  me  share 
him  with  you?" 

"I'll  see;  perhaps  —  sometime.  What  was  it  you 
were  going  to  say  about  our  'Mr.  Plunket'?" 

"He  told  me  to  tell  you  if  ever  I  should  see  you  — " 

"What  made  him  think  of  saying  that?  How 
could  he  have  any  reason  for  thinking  we  should  meet 
anywhere  on  this  earth?" 

She  realized  at  once  he  was  trying  to  enmesh  her 
by  this  question,  trying  to  find  out  if  she  had  ever 
heard  of  him,  Robert  Collamore,  before  she  made 
acquaintance  with  the  saddle-maker. 

She  was  not  ready  to  gratify  him,  not  yet.  She 
wanted  to  wait  till  just  before  he  left  her.  This  give- 
and-take  was  so  delightful ;  this  finding  out  little  by 
little  about  each  other,  man  and  woman  who  had  seen 
each  other  as  boy  and  girl  —  although  all  unknown 
to  him  —  in  such  peculiar  circumstances  more  than 
twenty  years  ago. 

She  gave  him  Bill  Plunket's  message  verbatim. 

"He  said,  'Tell  him  from  me  to  let  me  know  'bout 
that  war  business  as  soon  as  he  knows  himself.'  I 
thought  from  that  you  must  have  some  war  work  in 
view,  perhaps  in  the  interest  of  the  Canadian  govern- 
ment." 

"I  have,  in  a  way." 

He  waited  to  let  that  statement  sink  in  for  a 
moment  before  telling  her  the  whole  truth.  His  time 
was  short ;  but  ten  days,  now,  before  he  left  for  Val 
Cartier.  He  was  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  Long  John. 
He  knew  the  time  had  come  to  test  this  woman,  who 
by  her  very  frankness  baffled  him,  as  to  how  deeply 
she  cared  for  him. 


The  Alan  317 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly  as  if  waiting  for 
something  more  definite,  but  without  any  indication 
of  emotional  disturbance.  Very  evidently  the  sig- 
nificance of  his  statement  did  not  sink  in. 

"I  fancied  you  had.  So  many  of  our  own  have 
felt  they  must,  and  have  had  to  cross  the  border  to  do 
it."  She  spoke  almost  bitterly.  He  knew  her 
patriotism.  They  had  talked  the  situation  over 
together,  and  he  knew  her  position  hi  this  matter. 

"I  took  my  own  way  —  the  way  that  was  made 
plain  to  me.  I  am  going  from  here  to  Val  Cartier  to 
enlist  in  the  Canadian  overseas  forces.  McGillie  and 
a  few  of  our  Indians  go  with  me." 

He  spoke  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  quietly,  not  look- 
ing at  her,  for  he  was  opening  the  stove  top  to  drop 
in  his  cigar  end.  Before  straightening  himself  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  her  face. 

She  was  looking  at  him  intently,  with  no  sur- 
prise evident ;  just  a  steady  fixing  of  her  eyes  on 
him,  the  pupils  dilating  till  the  blue  showed  black. 
Her  color,  however,  so  clear  and  delicate  always,  and 
beautifully  deepened  when  she  grew  animated,  was 
gone,  washed  out,  wiped  out.  But  even  as  he  looked 
at  her  it  came  back,  creeping  at  first  into  her  cheeks, 
then  surging  up  her  temples  to  the  curve  of  the  heavy 
dark  hair  above  them. 

When  she  spoke  her  voice  was  clear  and  steady : 

"If  a  man  can,  it  is  the  only  thing  for  him  to  do,  I 
know." 

Robert  Collamore  was  baffled.  He  did  not  sit 
down  again  for  it  was  late. 

"I  mustn't  disturb  the  Dunstanes  any  more  than  I 
can  help,"  he  said,  putting  on  his  blanket  coat ;  "  they 
are  the  best  ever,  but  for  that  very  reason  no  decent 


318  Out  of  the  Silences 

man  wants  to  practise  Indian  tricks  on  them  in  order 
to  steal  in  at  night  without  noise  —  and  I've  been 
doing  it  the  last  four  weeks." 

She  smiled  at  that.  She,  too,  knew  his  noiseless 
Indian  ways.  So  many  times  she  had  looked  around 
during  her  walks  to  the  "  great  spruces,"  to  find  him 
walking  behind  her ;  or,  coming  hi  from  the  lean-to 
with  an  armful  of  pine  boughs,  found  him  seated 
in  the  hogshead  chair  he  had  preempted,  reading. 
.  "Good-night,"  she  said;  "come  in  to-morrow  for 
supper.  I  shall  have  a  famous  dish  ready.  Ba'tiste 
brought  it  to  me  this  morning.  It's  hanging  in  the 
lean-to  at  present." 

"I'll  be  here,  sure  thing.  I  wouldn't,  shouldn't, 
oughtn't,  and  couldn't  if  I  would,  miss  that  treat.  I 
know  your  top-of-the-stove  roasts.  No,"  he  said, 
putting  her,  the  flat  of  his  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
away  from  the  door,  "don't  come  any  nearer;  it's  a 
good  forty  below  to-night,  but  no  wind  fortunately. 
Keep  up  a  good  fire." 

6 

The  night  was  the  coldest  thus  far  of  the  winter, 
forty  below.  It  was  crystal  clear,  the  star  shine  mag- 
nificent, every  golden  light-ray  of  the  far  distant  suns 
accentuated  in  the  frost  atmosphere  of  the  subarctic 
north. 

Warmly  dressed  and  wrapped  in  the  "comforts", 
Alison  Doane  sat  throughout  that  night  by  the  stove, 
"stoking"  from  time  to  time  from  the  large  pile  of 
wood  the  half-breed  had  brought  in  before  supper. 
During  all  the  hours  of  that  long  northern  night  she, 
as  it  were,  "watched"  beside  her  own  heart  and  soul. 

She  wanted  to  be  sure  that  what  she  felt  for  Robert 
Collamore  was  what  she  had  been  waiting  all  her  life 


The  Man  319 

to  feel  for  some  one.  She  wanted  no  illusion,  no  vain 
imaginings  to  intervene,  casting  a  transitory  glamour 
upon  it.  She  wanted  to  know  if  this,  which,  making 
itself  known  in  her  consciousness  through  the  shock 
of  the  impending  and  immediate  loss  of  this  man's 
joyous  companionship,  had  suddenly  showed  its  full 
face  to  her,  was  the  real  thing.  She  was  going  to 
look  it  directly  in  the  face,  even  as  it  looked  her,  in 
order  to  make  sure. 

She  sought  both  without  and  within  for  light. 
Other  women  had  loved  this  man.  She  knew  of  two, 
a  half-breed  and  an  Indian ;  and  although  he  had  re- 
pulsed their  advances,  made  according  to  the  love  in 
their  hearts,  nevertheless  he  had  kept  during  all  these 
years  both  their  devotion  and  their  respect.  She 
told  herself  this  was  one  test  of  the  man ;  it  satisfied 
her. 

Of  white  women  who  had  loved  him,  she  knew 
none,  nor  did  she  care  to  know.  What  were  they  to 
her  ?  What  to  her  were  even  the  women  whom,  in  all 
probability,  he  had  loved  ?  What  had  she  to  do  with 
them?  Nothing,  she  told  herself.  All  that  con- 
cerned her  was  what  she  felt  towards  this  man,  whose 
presence  she  was  about  to  lose  out  of  her  life ;  what 
she  hoped  —  but  dared  not  believe,  for  he  had  given 
her  no  special  cause  for  either  hoping  or  believing  — 
he  might  possibly  feel  towards  her.  She  could  not 
know. 

She  had  not  looked  at  him  or  at  herself  through 
any  light  other  than  the  daily  one  of  delightful  ac- 
quaintance, rather  intimate  because  of  the  surround- 
ings and  circumstances  in  which  they  were  thrown 
together.  She  had  been  revelling  in  the  fact,  so  far 
as  he  was  concerned,  that  she  was  playing  a  delightful 


320  Out  of  the  Silences 

game  of  hide-and-seek ;  she  knew  him,  but  he  did 
not  recognize  her.  And  now  the  time  was  come  that 
it  was  all  of  no  avail,  either  the  disclosure  of  herself 
to  him,  or  the  fact  that  she  was  enjoying  in  this  new 
acquaintance  an  interesting  dual  personality  —  the 
man-of-the-Present  and  the  boy-of-the-Past.  Some- 
times he  was  the  one,  again  the  other ;  then  both  so 
evasively  combined  that  she  could  not  quite  find  her 
bearings  in  talking  with  and  addressing  him.  He  was 
to  her  man-boy  and  boy-man,  according  as  her  mood 
changed  to  suit  his,  or  to  adjust  itself  to  all  the  imagin- 
ings of  her  girlhood  and  womanhood. 

She  knew,  looking  the  newly  discovered  fact 
squarely  in  the  face,  that  the  boy  had  filled  many 
of  her  waking  thoughts  and  a  few  times  her  sleep- 
enwrapped  consciousness.  Or  was  it,  perhaps,  the 
waking  hours  that  were  sleep-filled  and  the  dream- 
hours  the  reality  ?  He  had  come  to  her  in  her  dreams, 
but  always  in  search  of  her  in  the  woods;  always 
with  a  gift  in  his  hand  that  he  was  pressing  on  her. 
It  was  never  the  shell  which  she  knew  now  to  be  the 
sacred  shell  of  some  Indian  medicine-woman.  Car- 
mastic  said  it  was  his  mother's ;  but  the  old  medicine- 
man rambled  at  times ;  he  was  too  old  to  be  reliable 
as  to  memories.  It  was  always  something  she  could 
not  see,  could  not  grasp ;  only  she  was  aware  it  was 
a  gift,  and  for  her. 

Many  a  time,  coming  home  from  the  Treasury 
Building  to  her  room  in  Georgetown,  in  the  late  after- 
noon of  a  winter's  day  when  the  dank  mists  from  the 
Potomac  were  rising  and  filling  the  whole  city  with 
dreariness,  the  trees  dripping  moisture,  the  thought 
of  the  hut  in  the  pine  woods,  of  the  music  and  dancing, 
swept  away  all  realization  of  her  environment,  And 


The  Man  321 

time  and  again,  when  the  dull  routine  of  her  working 
life  threatened  to  atrophy  her  innate  enthusiasm  for 
what  each  new  day  might  bring  her  in  the  way  of  an 
acquaintance,  a  book,  a  new  picture,  or  a  sunset 
beyond  the  Potomac,  the  remembrance  of  the  dog, 
and  the  coming  of  that  boy,  his  heart  torn  with 
grief,  brought  with  it  healthful  diversion  of  mind. 

In  the  past,  it  was  always  the  anticipation  of  each 
new  day,  the  looking  forward,  with  her  vivid  imagina- 
tion as  motive  power,  to  what  was  a  possibility  in 
each  day,  that  kept  her  so  fresh-hearted,  so  youthful 
in  looks,  so  alert  in  mind  and  body. 

But  now?  Now,  suddenly,  there  was  complete 
collapse  of  all  her  dream  world,  for  without  this  man's 
presence  she  could  not  anticipate  the  days. 

"So  it  has  come  to  this,"  she  said  to  herself. 

And  now  he  had  enlisted ;  this  was  a  fact.  He  was 
going  over  late  in  spring  or  during  the  early  summer. 
The  flood  tide  of  war  would  not  recede ;  it  was  advanc- 
ing overwhelmingly  upon  all  that  European  land  which 
she  had  so  longed  to  see.  There  was  no  lingering  on 
the  part  of  the  men  training  in  Val  Cartier.  A  few 
months,  and  they  were  off  —  these  strong  men  of  the 
West  and  North  with  eyes  keen  for  prairie  distances, 
and  a  sight  that  could  discern  the  tiniest  markings  on 
a  mosquito's  wing ;  with  arms  and  hands  that  could 
clear  the  forest,  till  the  land;  build  a  log  cabin,  a 
railroad,  bridge  an  abyss ;  wield  a  scythe  as  well  as  a 
bayonet,  and  work  a  machine  gun  with  the  same 
vigor  with  which  they  could  handle  a  miner's  pick. 
And  Robert  Collamore  was  one  of  these. 

After  many  hours  she  was  at  last  passive,  not 
thinking  at  all,  only  feeling. 

When  at  last  the  little  cabin  began  slowly  to  fill 


322  Out  of  the  Silences 

with  a  vaguelmmaterial  light,  that  in  the  north  is 
called  dawn,  she  knew  she  had  made  sure.  She  knew 
she  loved  this  man  upon  whose  trail  her  thought  had 
followed  hard  all  these  years ;  knew  she  loved  him 
for  time  and  for  eternity. 

In  the  light  of  this  love,  she  knew  that  his  going 
could  make  no  difference  so  far  as  the  unchangeable- 
ness  of  this  love  was  concerned.  She  recognized, 
moreover,  that  this  love  was  her  love.  She  knew 
nothing  of  his  real  feeling  towards  her,  but  that  did 
not  matter  now.  All  her  life,  if  she  must  go  softly 
along  her  special  trail,  she  would  know  that  this  love 
of  hers  for  him  must  go  with  her.  This  was  her  comfort. 

At  sunrise  she  renewed  the  fire,  which  she  had  re- 
plenished almost  hourly  during  the  night,  and  lay 
down  to  get  a  little  sleep  before  facing  a  new  day. 

7 

He  ran  in  upon  her  unexpectedly  about  four  the 
next  afternoon  while  she  was  busy  with  the  prepara- 
tion of  their  simple  supper.  She  heard  his  signal,  a 
tap  on  the  window,  and,  as  the  door  opened,  his 
cheery  voice: 

"Come  on  out,  do,  for  a  walk  to  the  spruces.  It's 
only  fifteen  below  now,  a  clear  rise  of  twenty -five  de- 
grees since  last  night,  and  no  wind.  The  west  looks 
as  if  it  were  staging  for  a  good  sunset,  and  we  mustn't 
miss  that." 

He  stepped  inside,  closing  the  door.  He  sniffed 
vigorously.  "That  '  something'  smells  bully." 

"It  won't  smell  so  bully  if  I  leave  it  to  its  own 
destruction,  so  make  your  choice  —  sunset  or  supper ; 
but  I  want  to  go  just  the  same." 

Her  back  was  towards  him  as  she  leaned  over  the 
stove.  When,  at  the  last  words,  she  turned,  Colla- 


The  Man  323 

more  looked  at  her,  as  Carmastic  had  once  looked  at 
him,  in  amazement  at  the  radiance  of  her  face.  His 
first  thought  was  purely  masculine:  "She  can  look 
like  this  and  yet  she  knows  I  am  going."  The  next 
was  quite  another. 

After  his  eyes  had  rested  for  a  full  minute  on  her 
face,  he  took  in  the  fact  of  her  white  dress,  white 
sweater  and  white  knitted  sash  looped  through  an 
exquisitely  tinted  pink  and  white  buckle — buckle,  no ! 

"No,"  he  told  himself;   "that's  no  buckle." 

His  thought  ran  like  lightning  over  his  past,  il- 
luminating every  portion  of  his  long  trail  for  the 
young  girl  in  the  hut  who  had  been  kind  to  his  dog ; 
who  had  been  his  boy's  ideal  of  all  that  was  best  and 
sweetest  in  life  since  he  saw  her  sitting  on  the  floor  of 
that  hut,  the  bitch's  head  on  her  lap. 

No;  this  was  no  buckle.  He  recognized  it:  the 
shell  belonging  to  Carmastic's  old  sister,  Flying  Loon, 
and  her  peace  gift  to  him.  It  was  the  sacred  shell 
belonging  to  the  old  squaw's  mother ;  the  same  shell 
he  had  thrust  into  that  girl's  hand  after  following  her 
along  the  trail  through  the  pine  forest  twenty-two 
years  ago.  There  could  be  no  mistake ;  they  were 
too  rare  among  both  whites  and  Indians.  Moreover, 
he  recalled  that  motion  of  her  hand  when  he  left  for 
Montreal,  her  "  Good-by,  good-by."  It  was  all  clear  to 
him  now. 

In  the  presence  of  such  a  mystery  of  life's  leadings, 
the  warm  air  of  the  cabin  seemed  about  to  suffocate 
him. 

He  opened  the  door  and,  making  no  excuse,  went  out 
into  the  clear  cold.  He  walked  to  the  edge  of  the 
bluff  and  looked  into  space,  seeing  nothing  but  the 
woman's  radiant  face  and  the  divinely  beautiful  tints 


324  Out  of  the  Silences 

of  the  sacred  shell  at  her  belt.  He  realized  she  was 
not  smiling  as  she  looked  at  him ;  but  it  seemed  to 
the  man,  looking  off  into  space  and  seeing  nothing 
but  that  face,  as  if  the  very  flame  of  life,  burning  its 
brightest  in  the  woman's  soul,  were  illumining  the 
delicately  tinted  shell  of  the  flesh,  so  transfiguring  it. 

Just  so  the  sacred  shell  had  looked  to  him  when, 
long  years  ago  in  the  Turtle  Mountains,  he  kindled  a 
bit  of  birch  bark  in  the  night,  and  holding  it  behind 
the  convex  surface  saw  the  fine  texture  of  pink  and 
white  transfused  and  transfigured  into  a  thing  of  un- 
earthly beauty. 

Had  she  known  all  the  time?  Had  she  sought  him, 
as  he  had  sought  her,  through  all  the  trails  of  memory 
and  the  world  ?  Had  they  both  come  into  this  wilder- 
ness of  the  great  north  to  find  each  other  ?  He  would 
soon  find  out.  He  went  back  to  the  cabin. 

" Almost  ready?"  he  called,  as  he  opened  the  door 
for  the  second  tune. 

"Yes.  I'll  set  the  pot  off  the  stove  till  I  get  back ; 
but  your  supper  will  be  late." 

"Never  mind  for  once;  all  the  better  appetite. 
Got  enough  on  ?  Yes  ?  Well  —  er  —  suppose  you 
take  that  red  thing,  muffler  you  call  it,  you  wear 
around  your  neck  sometimes,  and  sometimes  around 
your  waist.  I  never  knew  a  thing  like  that  could  be 
put  to  so  many  uses ;  it  takes  a  woman  to  invent  them. 
It's  liable  to  drop  five  degrees  to  every  mile,  after 
sunset  in  this  part  of  the  world.  You  may  need  it." 
8 

Out  into  the  silences  they  went,  the  frozen  silences 
of  the  great  North  Land.  They  went  swiftly,  he 
trailing  her ;  went  silently.  It  seemed  a  desecration 
for  either  of  them  to  speak  an  unnecessary  word. 


The  Man  325 

Through  the  forest  of  cedar  and  jack-pine  and 
birch,  the  west  began  to  send  its  shafts  of  sun- 
set light.  As  they  neared  the  "  great  spruces,"  there 
was  radiated  from  the  illumined  bark  of  the  south- 
westerly exposure  of  their  trunks  a  dull,  reddish- 
brown,  misty  glow  that  filled  all  the  atmosphere  to 
the  height  of  the  lowest  branches.  Above  it,  the  bare 
anatomy  of  birch  here  and  there  was  finely  etched  into 
the  solid  background  of  the  flaming  west.  Every  cedar 
was  a  solid  blotch  against  the  crimson,  and,  across 
a  natural  clearing,  all  the  spruce  tops  "jagged"  black 
against  blood  red. 

They  reached  the  "  great  spruces  "  and  stood  beneath 
them  to  watch  the  glory  in  the  west.  As  yet  neither 
of  them  had  spoken,  for  neither,  unbeknown  to  the 
other,  felt  it  to  be  necessary. 

Together  they  watched  the  background  of  changing 
sky  deepen  from  red  to  purple.  Together  they 
marvelled  at  its  shift  from  purple  to  pale  gold,  daffodil 
yellow,  orange-tawny  yellow  —  one  mass  of  solid 
color.  They  saw  that  fade  slowly  at  last  into  bluish 
gray  which,  in  time,  would  deepen  into  the  blue- 
black  of  a  northern  night. 

Alison  shivered  slightly.  The  sudden  drop  in  tem- 
perature, that  Collamore  had  predicted,  was  making 
itself  felt. 

"You're  cold,"  he  said.  He  thought  he  was  speak- 
ing in  tones  of  the  last  trump,  so  clear  his  voice 
sounded  in  the  darkening  woods,  so  loud  the  thump- 
ing of  his  heart.  Of  a  sudden  with  his  left  arm  he 
flung  wide  his  ample  blanket-coat. 

"Come  under  my  blanket,  Alison,"  he  said,  and 
waited  for  her  to  come. 

He  knew  she  knew  th^  full  significance  of   the 


326  Out  of  the  Silences 

words.  He  had  told  her  of  their  deep  meaning  to 
an  Indian  when  he  loved.  For  one  moment  she 
hesitated;  then  drew  close  to  his  side.  She  was 
enfolded  and  warmed  against  his  heart. 

And  there  under  the  great  spruces  they  stood  while 
the  fault  stars  came  out,  and  in  the  silent  wilderness 
they  drank  together  of  the  springs  of  life  which 
is  love. 

VAL  CARTIER 

i 

During  the  week  that  followed,  until  Long  John's 
arrival  with  the  mail,  and  for  the  four  days  after 
while  Collamore  waited  to  return  with  him  to  Ground- 
house,  the  man  and  woman,  whose  long  trails  had  at 
last  met  and  merged,  lived  a  lifetime  that  passed  as 
an  hour. 

Robert  Collamore's  heart  and  soul  expanded  in  the 
sunshine  of  the  presence  of  his  love ;  he  opened  both 
to  her,  wide.  There  was  nothing  he  desired  to  hide 
from  her.  Human  he  was,  very,  a  "rank  sinner"  as 
he  once  described  himself  to  her,  but  on  the  whole  he 
had  tried  to  walk  upright,  "  face  forward  ",  his  back 
to  what  he  regretted,  and  his  whole  manhood  out- 
reaching  to  better  ends,  to  helpfulness  towards  others,, 
to  —  as  he  said  to  her  —  "some  real  living." 

He  told  her  of  Carmastic's  design  of  the  Path  of 
Life,  how  what  the  old  Indian  said  to  him  had  in- 
fluenced him  for  the  past  twenty  years  and  more. 
He  told  her  of  its  temptations  —  drawing  the  diagram 
for  her  in  the  back  of  her  notebook  —  that  he  had 
sometimes  withstood,  to  which,  sometimes,  he  had 
yielded :  the  wiles  of  women,  the  lure  of  fire-water. 
Of  the  "freezing  cold,  the  hunger  that  starves,  the. 


The  Man  327 

scorching  heat  that  parches  with  thirst",  of  these  she 
already  knew. 

"But  I  never  followed  any  one  of  them  so  far  as  to 
lose  the  trail,  Alie,"  he  said  to  her  that  last  evening 
together,  "the  trail  that  I  was  sure  was  leading  me 
to  what  I  have  now  in  you.  You  see,"  —  he  hesi- 
tated, —  "I  had  never  lived  until  I  met  you." 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  rather  surprised  at 
just  such  a  statement.  If  any  man  had  really 
"lived",  she  would  have  said  this  man  had,  because 
of  his  varied  experience,  his  loving  and  hating,  his 
fighting  and  forgiving,  his  compassion  for  others,  his 
amusing  undying  big  grudges  against  those  who  had 
done  him  petty  wrongs. 

He  nodded  emphatically. 

"Every  man  has  his  hour,  and  this  is  mine.  One 
hour,  so  far,  in  a  whole  lifetime.  It's  worth  living  for, 
dying  for,  girl!  And  I  expect  to  have  one  more  of 
another  kind,  when  I'm  over  there  and  get  my  hands 
on  the  throat  of  some  slayer  of  old  women  and  little 
children." 

He  looked  into  her  face  and  smiled. 

"What  more  can  a  man  ask  for  in  this  world? 
This  one  hour  here  with  you.  And  then  my  luck  — 
think  of  it!  —  to  be  one  infinitesimal  human  atom 
sandwiched  in  between  the  upheaved,  broken-in- 
pieces,  red-lava-overflowed  strata  of  two  ages  in 
humanity's  history ;  and,  just  at  the  right  moment, 
to  be  given  a  fighting  chance  to  strike  one  blow 
for  the  survival  of  what  should  be  most  fit  for  this 
world.  Two ,  such  hours  —  I  say  the  very  gods  may 
envy  me." 

He  lighted  a  cigar  and  smoked  placidly.  It  did 
Alison  Doane's  heart  and  soul  good  to  see  him. 


328  Out  of  the  Silences 

"I  fancy  Mrs.  Carrolly  will  be  disappointed  that 
she  hasn't  a  wedding  reception  for  you  in  immediate 
prospect." 

"I  can  hear  her  sputter  to  Phil  about  that  'wasted 
opportunity.'  She  is  so  kind  at  heart,  and  has 
wanted  to  do  so  much  for  me  that  I  couldn't  accept. 
I'd  be  willing  to  wager  that  when  I  get  her  answer  she 
will  insist  on  my  coming  in  the  circumstances  to  her." 

"Will  you  go?"  he  spoke  abruptly. 

"Why,  no,  Bob,  how  can  you  think  that?  You 
know,  hi  your  old  Book,  there  is  a  little  book  of 
Ruth—" 

"Never  read  that.    Tell  me  about  it." 

She  told  him ;  a  simple  enough  story  which  con- 
tains, however,  what  is  possibly  the  finest  expression 
of  woman's  devotion  in  the  whole  range  of  literature. 

"And  so,  Bob  dear,  I,  too,  can  say,  'Your  people 
shall  be  my  people/  and  consequently  there  will  be 
no  going  to  live  with  Evelyn  after  this.  I  shall  stay 
here  till  the  lakes  are  free  from  ice,  and  then  meet 
you  at  Val  Cartier  just  before  you  go.  Afterwards 
I  shall  go  back  to  the  New  Mission ;  there  is  plenty 
for  me  to  do  there.  And  next  winter  I  shall  still  be 
there,  only  I've  half  promised  Mrs.  Dunstanes  —  she 
has  really  been  lovely  to  me  in  everything ;  so  dear 
and  sensible,  you  know,  about  all  this  selfishness  of 
ours  —  to  spend  the  three  hard  winter  months  up 
here  with  her. 

"  And  then,  too,  I  know  Phil's  interest  in  the  new 
project.  You  see,  I  shall  have  a  canteen,  like  the 
women  overseas,  up  here  in  this  wilderness.  Mr. 
Dunstanes  says  there  will  be  loggers  and  teamsters 
coming  and  going  next  year ;  and  the  men  are  so 
appreciative  of  the  little  comforts  only  women  can 


The  Man  329 

give  them.  I've  already  found  that  put.  Oh,  I've 
work  enough  cut  out  to  fill  every  day  as  well  as 
evening." 

He  reached  for  her  hands,  and  held  them  close. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you,  Alison  —  what  you  must 
know  —  that  all  mine  is  yours.  I've  seen  to  that  up 
here,  taking  no  chances  between  here  and  Ground- 
house.  The  Dunstanes  and  one  of  the  men  are 
witnesses.  And,  moreover,  when  I  get  back  into 
civilization,  the  first  thing  will  be  to  make  you  sole 
manager,  while  I  am  away,  of  whatever  is  mine,  with 
use  of  same  in  case  you  need  it  for  yourself  or  'our 
people.'  I  don't  want  them  to  suffer  in  any  way, 
now  that  McGillie  and  Chum  and  Kinni-kinnik's 
brothers  all  go  with  me.  You  will  know  the  right 
thing  to  do  every  tune." 

Her  eyes  filled,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

He  laughed  out  happily.  "Oh,  but  you  are  bully, 
Alison  Doane.  I  know  all  the  bully  things  you  will 
do  for  them  —  better  than  I  could  do  them."  He 
drew  her  to  him,  to  hold  her  close  while  he  whispered  : 

"Tell  me  true,  do  you  understand  why  I  do  not 
ask  you  to  have  the  wedding  now  before  I  go,  rather 
than  to  wait  till  I  get  back?" 

Then  Alison  Doane,  putting  him  away  from  her 
that  she  might  look  into  his  face,  and  with  both  hands 
on  his  shoulders,  spoke  out  of  the  fineness  of  a  loving 
woman's  understanding  of  the  man  who  was  her  life : 

"Bob,  dear,  I  understand.  I  am  your  wife  in  heart 
and  soul.  Indeed,  I  think  I  must  have  been  ever 
since  that  time  when  I  took  you  as  a  boy  into  my 
heart.  No  words  of  man,  pronounced  by  man,  can 
make  me  more  your  wife  in  that  way  than  I  am 
now.  And  you,"  she  looked  him  directly  in  the 


33O  Out  of  the  Silences 

•eyes,  "are  what  I  call  consecrated.  When  your  sum- 
mons came  there  in  the  Turtle  Mountains,  it  was 
as  you  have  told  me,  consecration.  It  is  no  time  to 
put  this  matter  of  'wedding'  each  other  first.  That 
can  wait.  That  makes  no  difference  in  my  love  for 
you,  or  in  yours  for  me." 

His  face  grew  white  under  the  stress  of  his  feeling. 
How  she  had  read  him,  met  his  ideals ! 

"You  are  right,  Alie.  You  understand.  What  we 
feel  for  each  other  goes  down  deep  into  —  I  thank 
my  Maker  for  it  —  but  I  have  no  words  to  tell  you. 
Come  here,  to  me." 

2 

Five  months  afterwards,  on  a  July  day,  there  came 
slowly  down  the  shed,  where  the  troops  from  Val 
Cartier  were  entraining,  an  old  man,  leaning  heavily 
on  a  cane.  He  was  crippled  with  rheumatism. 
With  him  was  a  woman  whom  many  a  man  turned 
to  look  after,  for  her  face  was  like  a  benediction  in 
its  expression  of  radiant  serenity.  Her  arm  was 
linked  in  the  old  man's. 

Alison  Doane  had  taken  the  saddle-maker  very 
literally  under  her  wing  and  escorted  him  from  Min- 
nesota to  Val  Cartier  to  see  his  "Son." 

Collamore  leaped  from  the  steps  of  the  train.  He 
had  been  afraid  he  might  miss  them.  Yet,  at  one 
time,  for  the  space  of  a  thought,  he  cried  "Coward," 
and  wished  for  his  own  sake  and  Alison's  he  might 
be  spared  the  ordeal. 

"Hi,  there,  Plunket,"  he  cried  out  joyfully,  waving 
his  hat  and  hands  the  sooner  to  attract  their  atten- 
tion. "I  was  dead  afraid  you'd  be  late,  both  of  you." 
He  was  speaking  to  Plunket  and  pumping  his  hand,  but 
his  eyes  were  on  Alison,  seeing  which  she  was  content. 


The  Man  331 

"'Tain't  so  easy  gettin'  here,  Bob."  Suddenly 
he  dashed  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  eyes. 

"Damn  it  all,  Son,  I  want  to  go  too.  If  I  wasn't 
so  old,  if  it  wasn't  for  these  pesky  rheumatics,  I'd  show 
fight,  an' — •  an'  show  'em  an  old  man  could — could  —  " 

He  was  struggling  painfully  with  his  emotion, 
ashamed  and  fearing  to  break  down.  But  bracing 
himself  on  his  cane,  he  conquered. 

"Give  it  to  'em,  Bob!"  He  shouted  so  loud  that 
McGillie,  hearing  him,  dashed  from  the  train  and 
came  plunging  towards  him  through  the  crowd. 
"  Get  yer  dander  up  same  as  ye  did  when  ye  was 
goin'  to  kill  that  Injun  that  did  ye  on  the  pony 
trade.  Ye'll  get  'em  then,  or  my  name  ain't  Bill 
Plunket.  I  can't  take  ye  up  by  the  slack  o'  yer  shirt 
as  I  did  then  an'  hold  ye  back,  even  if  I  wanted  to 
which  I  don't.  Hunk  into  'em  same  as  ye  hunked 
into  McGillie  that  time  in  the  Turtle  Mountains  when 
ye  fought  for  a  girl,  an'  the  folks  to  home  will  back 
ye  every  time." 

"You  may  bet  your  life  I  will,  Plunket." 

The  starting  signal  was  given.  There  followed  a. 
general  handshaking. 

The  saddle-maker  turned  away  then,  that  he  might 
not  see  the  parting  of  the  two  he  loved  best  on  earth ; 
but,  Alison,  catching  him  with  both  hands  by  his 
bowed  shoulders,  turned  him  face  about.  She  was 
smiling  bravely. 

"Good-by,  Bob;  don't  forget  to  look  in  the  right 
hand  pocket  of  your  rain  coat.  I  tucked  that  long- 
legged  pair  of  socks  in  there." 

The  train  moved  out.     She  waved  her  hand. 

Of  such  stuff  are  made  the  women  of  To-day  who, 
loving  truly,  give  their  all. 


33  2  Out  of  the  Silences 


THE  WINGED  WORD 

Within  twelve  months  many  of  the  tribes  of  the 
;Great  North  sensed  something  of  the  truth. 

The  Montagnais  about  the  headwaters  of  the 
Saguenay,  as  well  as  the  Indians  of  the  St.  John  and 
the  Penobscot,  knew  of  it.  The  ten  thousand  Chip- 
pewa  of  Minnesota,  on  their  own  lands  and  Govern- 
ment reservations,  or  foot-loose  and  wretched,  yet 
free,  in  groves  and  swamps,  also  knew  —  White  Earth, 
Red  Lake,  Otter-tail,  Pillager,  Mille  Lac :  the  Word 
was  whispered  from  one  to  the  other. 

Across  the  Dakota  plains  to  the  lone  reservation 
in  that  half -encircling  bend  of  the  Missouri,  which 
duplicates  the  Souris,  the  Word  was  carried  as  if  on 
wings.  The  Sioux  knew  of  the  Monstrosity  to  which 
the  white  civilization  had  at  last  given  birth,  and  all 
the  horror  of  its  deformity.  Thence,  far  westward 
into  Montana,  among  the  foothills  of  the  Rockies, 
the  Blackfeet  heard  and  knew  —  and  considered  the 
White  Man's  burden. 

Over  the  Canadian  border,  around  the  campfires 
of  the  British  Columbia  Kootenais,  the  crucifixion 
of  a  free  humanity  was  spoken  of  with  bated  breath, 
an  echo  thereof  reaching  even  to  the  isolated  band  of 
Bear-fighting  Sioux  in  the  mountainous  district  of 
western  Alberta.  And  from  there,  eastward,  all 
adown  the  far  flung  slope  of  the  Great  Divide  to  the 
swampy  shores  of  Hudson's  Bay,  the  Word  concern- 
ing the  Black  Terror  went  forth  by  messenger,  scout, 
agent,  hunter,  trapper,  trader,  factor ;  by  rail,  water, 
steam,  paddle,  and  electricity. 

The  Assiniboine  and  the  Athabascan  knew  it, 
and  the  Rocky  Mountain  S tonics.  It  came  to  the 


The  Man  333 

knowledge  of  Wood  Cree,  Swamp  Cree,  Plain  Cree, 
as  many  months  before  it  had  come  to  their  poor 
remnant  from  the  Turtle  Mountains,  now  living  at 
the  New  Mission  where  upon  hut  and  tepee  lay 
the  shadow  of  the  Terror ;  for  because  of  it,  their 
"Son,"  together  with  Chum,  with  Colin  McGillie, 
Kinm-kinnik's  brothers,  and  a  few  from  the  northern 
tribes,  had  crossed  the  ocean  with  thousands  of  their 
humankind  to  help  throttle  the  hydra-headed  Mon- 
strosity of  an  unthinkable  Tyranny. 


IV 

IN  THE   HILLS   OF   FRANCE 


IV 

IN  THE  HILLS  OF  FRANCE 

i 

WINTER  silence  is  on  the  heights  and  in  the  little 
valley,  and  on  the  plain,  upon  which  it  opens,  now 
covered  with  freshly  fallen  snow ;  nor  roar  of  gun  nor 
shriek  of  shell  disturbs  it.  The  air  is  crystal  clear 
and  sunshine  filled,  unflecked,  at  this  moment,  by 
bird  or  bird-machine. 

Without  warning  a  barrage  is  put  down;  followed 
by  drum  fire,  fire  of  machine  guns,  trench-mortar 
fire,  hell  fire  —  and  some  men  are  cut  off  in  a  salient. . . 
2 

Me  Gillie  salutes  his  commanding  officer.  Behind 
McGillie  are  Chum  and  Kinni-kinnik's  brothers, 
statue-like,  hands  at  helmets. 

"Well,  McGillie?" 

"Me  an'  the  Injuns,  Sir,  want  to  go  through  and 
bring  out  Collamore  alive  or  dead;  he's  my  blood- 
brother,  Sir." 

"Very  well." 

3 

Sunset  silence  on  hills  and  valley.  The  men,  rest- 
ing for  a  few  hours  behind  the  line,  notice  the  flash 
and  flare  of  a  fire  kindled  on  the  snowy  hillside  nearby 
whore,  in  one  of  the  smallest  and  most  humble  of 
God's  acres  in  France,  are  the  newly  made  graves, 

337 


338  Out  of  the  Silences 

the  result  of  the  day's  work.  They  see  silhouetted 
against  the  reaching  flames  the  crouching  forms  of 
the  Indians  tending  it. 

''What  are  they  up  to?"  An  officer,  adjusting 
his  glass  to  observe  them  more  closely,  turned  to  his 
aide. 

"It's  one  of  their  customs;  McGillie  told  me  they 
would  do  it  if  they  got  the  chance.  We  had  permis- 
sion for  them." 

"McGillie  is  at  the  base  hospital?"  The  officer 
kept  his  eyes  glued  to  the  glass. 

"Yes  —  well  shot  up,  though." 

"Will  he  pull  through?" 

"They  think  so,  but  his  day  is  over." 

"I  must  see  McGillie,"  the  officer  clapped  to  his 
glass  with  decision;  "he  will  be  mentioned  in  orders 
for  the  day  —  and  the  rest  of  them,"  he  added  with 
a  nod  in  the  direction  of  the  hillside. 

4 

Night  falls.  The  reflection  of  the  firelight  grows 
dull.  In  the  east  the  horizon  is  flooded  with  the 
luminous  white  radiance  that  heralds  a  rising  full 
moon.  From  the  hillside  comes  the  sound  of  loud, 
long  wailing ;  it  pierces  the  cold  air  vibrant  with 
the  continuous  discharge  of  distant  guns. 

It  is  the  death  chant  of  the  Indians  mourning  their 
Son  of  the  Silent  Places  who  has  come  into  his  own. 

THE  SONG  THAT  WAS  NEVER  SUNG 

i 

There  were  quiet  hours,  quiet  days,  quiet  nights, 
sometimes  they  seemed  eternal  in  their  length,  in 
the  cabin  overlooking  the  North  Lake  after  the  com- 
ing of  the  telegram,  bringing  the  word  which,  for  a 


In  the  Hills  of  France  339 

time,  froze  the  springs  of  life  in  a  woman's  heart. 
Then  the  great  silent  land  found  voice  in  the  break- 
ing up  of  winter  and  the  coming  of  spring  which  is 
always  on  the  very  threshold  of  summer. 

All  the  wilderness  grew  vocal  with  its  waters  free- 
ing themselves  from  ice  —  rill,  rapid,  shallow,  torrent, 
fall,  the  myriads  of  lakes,  the  marshes,  the  great 
rivers ;  each  swelled  the  volume  of  sound  with  the 
gradual  passing  of  winter.  There  was  a  trickling, 
tinkling,  rippling,  singing  of  little  waters,  a  rushing 
and  roaring  of  rapid  and  cataract,  but  no  hint  other- 
wise of  spring,  no  swelling  leaf-bud,  no  pricking  of 
grass  blade,  no  cawing  of  crows,  no  whistling  wings 
of  wild  fowl. 

There  was  no  possibility  of  mail  for  two  months. 
The  waterways  of  the  north  in  the  process  of  freeing 
themselves  from  ice  are  untrustworthy  highways  for 
man  and  beast.  It  is  always  so. 

But  in  the  last  of  May,  three  weeks  before  any  mail 
could  be  expected,  the  men  at  the  mill  saw  an  In- 
dian in  his  canoe,  paddling  swiftly  towards  the  bluff 
where  stood  the  foreman's  hut.  It  was  Long  John 
bringing  the  mail,  and  a  special  package  from  the  front 
for  Alison  Doane. 

She  had  been  trying  to  readjust  her  life  during  the 
quiet  of  those  winter  days  and  nights ;  in  part  she 
had  succeeded.  She  told  herself  that  her  word  to 
the  man  of  her  love,  "Your  people  shall  be  my  people," 
should  be  proved  by  deeds  to  be  no  empty  promise ; 
for  there  was  McGillie,  who  would  be  at  home  in  a  few 
months,  helpless,  and  Kinni-kinnik  and  her  children 
to  be  provided  for ;  there  were  the  wives  and  children 
of  her  two  brothers  to  care  for,  and  Chum's  squaw 
and  pappooses  —  all  now  at  Groundhouse  and  the 


340  Out  of  the  Silences 

reservation,  and  each  to  be  her  special  care  hence- 
forward. Her  saddle-maker,  also,  who  was  growing  so 
old  and  crippled — she  must  stand  to  him  in  Robert's 
place ;  and  there  was  Stella  to  cheer  and  help  onward 
to  independence.  She  was  only  waiting  for  the  last 
of  June  and  settled  conditions  for  making  the  water 
journey  thither. 

When  Long  John  appeared  at  her  door  he  gave  her 
the  package  without  a  word.  At  the  risk  of  life  and 
limb  he  had  brought  it  up  through  a  hundred  miles 
of  almost  impassable  wilderness.  She  tried  to  thank 
him,  but  she  could  only  set  abundant  food  before  him. 
Then,  taking  her  package,  she  went  out,  walking 
rapidly  over  to  the  woods  where,  more  than  two  years 
before,  she  and  her  beloved  had  drunk  together  of 
the  wellspring  of  love  which  is  life. 

There  was  no  silence  now,  as  then,  for  the  air  was 
musical  with  the  song  of  many  waters.  She  took 
her  stand  beneath  the  great  spruces  and  opening  her 
package  read : 

2 

From  dugout  to  dugout ;  that  is  a  special  fact  in 
my  special  life.  It  is  a  far  cry  from  that  river  bench 
of  the  Missouri  to  this  ten  by  eighteen  hole  in  the 
ground  in  France ;  but  the  sound  carries  far,  for  some- 
how the  above  fact  annihilates  distance. 

It  is  curious,  but  here  in  a  foreign  land,  surrounded 
by  the  fields  of  war's  wreckage,  I  am  reminded,  and 
more  and  more  often,  of  my  old-time  days  on  the 
prairies  and  the  plains. 

I  was  driving  a  provision  wagon  to  the  front  yes- 
terday. The  shells  were  flying,  —  one  got  a  near  drop 


In  the  Hills  of  France  341 

on  the  tail  of  my  cart,  —  shrapnel  falling.  McGillie 
was  with  me,  and  I  was  just  saying  to  him  that 
I  thought  it  looked  like  a  good  ''chicken"  country, 
when  there  came  a  sudden  silence  in  the  ear-splitting 
chaos  of  sound,  just  like  the  lull  in  the  midst  of  a 
tempest  on  the  plains.  It's  the  one  thing  I  can't 
get  used  to  here  —  it's  so  dead  quiet.  In  that  short 
breathless  silence  I  actually  saw  over  in  the  field  a 
"chicken"  and  heard  its  call;  McGillie  is  witness. 
It  had  the  effect  of  a  resurrection  trump  on  both 
of  us.  Then  again  the  grinding  shriek  and  roar 
filled  the  air. 

That  momentary  lull  —  you  might  possibly  have 
counted  ten  in  it  —  gave  time  for  a  memory  film  to 
develop  in  my  consciousness,  every  detail  of  the 
picture  perfect. 

Of  course,  I  knew  well  enough  I  was  driving  a  wagon 
over  a  field  in  France  —  and  driving  it  mighty  well, 
if  I  do  say  it,  considering  the  mud  and  shell  holes. 
But  what  I  saw  before  me  were  the  Dakota  prairies  in 
spring ;  their  vast,  treeless,  grassy  swells  vividly  green ; 
the  horizon  line  lost  in  the  long  ridges  of  crinkled 
golden  cloud  masses  lying  low  above  an  ocean  of 
changing  sunset  light.  "  And  I  heard  the  prairie 
chickens  calling  from  the  knolls." 

It's  just  like  living  in  the  Book,  Alison,  to  see  this 
great  marshalling  of  the  tribes  with  the  end  in  view 
to  wipe  out  other  tribes. 

What's  the  difference  ?  Call  us  Amalekites,  Amor- 
ites,  Jebusites,  Perizzites  —  how  I  loved  those  jaw- 
crackers  when  I  was  a  kid  !  —  or  by  our  own  names ; 
it's  all  one  in  the  end.  And  swords,  slings,  fire  from 
heaven,  war  chariots,  plagues,  all  these,  also,  to  the 


342  Out  of  the  Silences 

one  end  :  the  wiping  out  of  tribal  life  that  other  tribes 
may  live.  .  .  . 

I  wonder  sometimes  if  the  Vision  of  Ezekiel  mightn't 
have  been  a  fighting  plane  (there  go  two  of  them  now 
in  full  flight,  manoeuvring  for  a  Gotha),  and  Jonah's 
whale  an  ancient  submarine?  Don't  laugh;  it's 
not  at  all  unlikely;  you  remember  there  is  nothing 
new  under  the  sun?  Just  read  the  accounts  of  both. 
It's  mighty  interesting  reading,  let  me  tell  you.  You 
needn't  laugh  either  —  as  in  my  mind's  eye  I  see  you 
will  —  if  I  tell  you  that,  anyway,  I  know  the  first 
bombs  on  this  earth  are  recorded  somewhere  in  the 
Book  annex,  a  part  I  never  read  until  a  few  years  ago 
and  don't  take  much  stock  in.  But  the  bombs  are  all 
right  —  pitch  and  pig's  grease.  You'll  find  it  in  the 
Apocrypha ;  I  don't  know  where  —  Gee !  They've 
got  that  Gotha,  and  inside  our  lines  too.  ... 

I  can't  help  wondering  how  long,  how  long ;  whether 
four  years  of  this  war  wilderness,  or  forty,  or  four 
hundred  ? 

Well,  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  I  only  know 
that,  ignorant  of  the  way  we  are  being  led,  there  goes 
before  us,  visible  to  the  eyes  of  all  the  tribes,  a  pillar 
of  cloud  by  day  —  battle  smoke,  the  smoke  of  burn- 
ing villages,  gas  clouds ;  and  by  night  a  pillar  of  fire 
—  shell  fire,  gun  fire,  the  light  of  star  shells,  sometimes 
the  sudden  fire  curtain  of  the  barrage.  And  because 
of  these  two  pillars,  seen  of  us  by  day  and  by  night, 
we  may  not  look  upon  God's  face,  not  yet ;  only,  — 
I  can  tell  this  to  you  alone,  —  I  know  that  somehow 
they  are  symbols  of  His  presence  as  real  to  us  as  to 
the  Israelites  of  old. 


In  the  Hills  of  France  343 

Thank  God  our  Land  has  come  in  at  last,  but  late, 
late.  There  is  no  use  crying  over  spilt  milk  —  lost 
opportunities,  loss  of  respect,  loss  of  national  manhood 
in  the  eyes  of  the  other  tribes.  At  last  we  can  begin, 
as  a  nation,  with  the  few  thousands  here,  to  redeem 
these  past  two  years  and  more  of  national  silence  by 
blood  sacrifice,  the  only  way  to  wipe  ^out  our  shame 
and  humiliation.  And  in  time  we,  too,  shall  be 
able  to  look  God  in  the  face  again  —  like  men, 
for  we  shall  have  quitted  ourselves  as  such.  This 
is  my  faith. 

I  am  to-day  a  "fully  tested,  experienced  fighting 
machine."  And  I  intend  to  stay  where  this  machine 
can  be  of  the  most  use  in  the  fight.  So  you  will 
understand  my  remaining  with  the  Canadian  over- 
seas force  until  our  men  shall  have  been  trained  into 
just  such  machines  as  I  am.  Then  I  shall  join  up  with 
my  own  hi  thankfulness  of  spirit. 

The  Indians,  too,  are  a  factor  in  this  decision.  I 
don't  want  to  leave  them.  We've  trained  together, 
fought  together,  slept  in  shell  craters  half  filled  with 
snow  slush,  and  together  sought  shelter  in  the  same 
dugout.  I  shall  stick  to  them  as  long  as  I  can. 
They're  great ! 

Smothering  smoke,  fire  drift  in  our  faces,  scorch 
of  flame  waves  on  our  bodies.  Holding  my  breath, 
I  held  my  head  under  the  mud  and  ooze  of  the  bog 
pond  into  which  we  had  driven  the  horses.  We 
ended  by  saving  only  ourselves;  all  else:  animals, 
houses,  crops,  swept  clean  away  by  that  mighty  flame 
besom. 

So  it  passed  — that  miles-wide  sheet  of  crisping 


344  Out  of  the  Silences 

roaring  fire  driven  before  a  great  wind  over  the 
Dakota  prairies. 

A  few  of  us  had  our  baptism  of  fire  yesterday ;  for 
me  it  was  like  reliving  that  experience  of  fourteen 
years  ago  on  the  plains. 

I  didn't  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment until  long  years  after  I  left  the  Mountain. 
Then  I  found  it  slow,  too  tame  (I  was  such  a 
born  fighter!)  in  comparison  with  my  fractional 
part  of  the  Old  that  dealt  mainly  with  the  warring 
of  the  tribes. 

I  think  I  am  beginning  to  understand  something  of 
its  meaning  now  in  the  light  of  this  warfare.  It  is 
a  blinding  light,  Alison;  so  blinding  that  things, 
events,  grow  "dark  through  excess  of  light."  You 
have  experienced  this  when  you  have  tried  to  look  the 
sun  in  the  face  for  a  second  and  then  turned  your 
darkened  sight  on  a  landscape,  haven't  you  ? 

I  think  I  am  beginning  to  comprehend  something 
of  the  meaning  of  a  certain  blood  redemption  chron- 
icled there  in  the  new  version  of  the  old  Hebrew 
blood  sacrifice. 

Strange !  These  experiences,  through  which  I  am 
passing  here,  leave  with  me  the  impression  that  I 
have  been  all  through  it  before  —  over  home,  during 
my  life  on  the  plains,  in  the  desert,  in  the  forests,  the 
mountains. 

Only  last  night  the  dull  glow  on  the  horizon  of  a 
burning  town  brought  to  mind  for  a  second  time  the 
uncertain  flame  of  prairie  fires. 

Again  to-night  I  caught  from  some  devastated  gar- 
den in  that  same  smouldering  town  —  we've  moved 
up  to  it  —  a  good  whiff  of  wild  thyme.  That  and 


In  the  Hills  of  France  345 

the  drum  fire,  for  things  are  lively  on  our  right, 
have  set  me  wild. 

It  is  the  aroma  of  the  wild  sage  of  the  plains  that 
is  so  strong  on  the  night  air.  It  is  the  rapid  vibration 
of  the  Indian  drum  I  am  hearing ;  the  tepees  I  am  see- 
ing ;  the  squaws  wetting  switches  of  the  sage  brush  and 
heating  them  for  the  use  of  the  men  hi  preserving  the 
right  resonance.  I  see  the  dance.  I  close  my  eyes 
and  hear  "the  shuffle  of  moccasins  on  the  hard  clay 
floor."  .  .  . 

They  must  have  thought  I  was  plumb  crazy, 
for  I  rushed  out  into  the  night  to  search  for  that 
garden. 

I  found  something  better  than  wild  thyme  or 
sage,  after  locating  the  devastated  garden.  In 
the  cellar  of  a  shell-gutted  stone  house,  which  once 
this  garden  sanctified,  —  as  gardens  do,  you  know, 
—  I  found  a  kiddie  about  hi  my  condition  when  the 
soldiers  from  the  fort  rescued  me  and  my  saddle- 
maker  from  the  dugout.  He  was  numb  with  cold  and 
nearly  starved.  I  warmed  him  against  my  heart ;  just 
as  once  I  warmed  a  tiny  bird  blown  from  somewhere 
in  the  great  North  by  a  bitter  wind  to  my  nest  in  the 
treetop.  I  didn't  tell  you  this  when  I  told  you  about 
my  three  nights'  experience  in  that  tree.  I've  never 
told  it  to  any  one  but  you  —  and  that's  the  same  as 
telling  it  to  myself. 

I  know  how  that  kiddie  felt  when  he  came  to,  none 
of  his  own  being  left  (let's  adopt  him,  Alie) ;  for  I 
have  been  there,  my  little  brother  —  I  should  say  my 
two  little  brothers,  my  bird-brother  and  my  human 
one.  Our  Indians  have  a  way  all  their  own  of  recog- 
nizing brotherhood  in  bird  or  beast,  and  I've  grown 
into  it. 


346  Out  of  the  Silences 

I'm  throwing  up  my  tin  cap.  The  word  has  come, 
"Jerusalem  is  delivered,"  after  two  thousand  years 
plus  of  bondage !  Great  news  for  Jew  and  Gentile. 

Once,  years  ago,  down  in  "Alabamy",  I  heard  the 
darkies  singing  at  a  camp-meeting : 

"  Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egupt's  dark  sea, 
Jehovah's  triumphant,  his  people  are  free." 

I'd  like  to  yell  it  out  right  here  and  now  —  I  re- 
member the  tune  —  only  I'm  in  a  listening  post. 
By  the  way,  I've  strained  my  eardrums  for  three 
mortal  hours  and  haven't  yet  heard  a  peep  out  of  the 
enemy.  My  relief  has  just  come ;  that's  why  I  am 
scribbling  this.  .  .  . 

Back  again  in  the  dugout.  I  keep  thinking  of 
Jerusalem,  free.  Golly,  I'd  like  to  take  a  peep  into 
some  of  the  ancient  cathedrals  and  chapels  here  just 
at  this  creepy  hour — 1.30  in  the  morning.  I 
fancy  I  should  see  all  the  old  cross-legged  crusaders 
getting  busy,  for  surely  their  spirits  must  be  stirring 
and  animating  their  mould  —  what  there  is  left  of  it. 

I  can  see  those  grand  old  boys  uncrossing  their 
legs  —  they've  lain  so  long,  so  stiff  and  straight, 
those  stone  effigies,  on  their  stone  coffin  lids.  I 
know  just  how  cramped  they  must  feel,  although  a 
sarcophagus  top  has  it  easy  with  a  frozen  layer  of 
mud  at  the  bottom  of  a  shallow  trench.  I  can  see 
'em  shifting  their  heavy  armor,  lifting  their  visors 
to  get  a  good  look  about  'em  in  this  twentieth  century, 
and  wondering  at  the  sky-filled  naves,  the  shattered 
columns,  the  broken  altars,  the  mark  of  catapult, 
cannon  ball,  and  flame;  and  suddenly,  with  vision 
cleared,  knowing  that  our  cause  is  theirs,  making 


In  the  Hills  of  France  347 

ready  to  close  ranks  and  help  us  through  to  final 
triumph. 

Why,  Alison,  girl,  not  down-hearted?  I  can  just 
see  you  smile  and  hear  your  answer:  "Not  on  your 
life,  Bob." 

That's  all  right,  but  something  is  troubling  you. 
I  wonder  — 

Look  here,  Alie,  let's  thresh  it  out  once  and  for  all, 
you  and  I.  We  don't  talk  these  things  here;  no 
real  man  does,  here  or  anywhere,  when  he  is  in  action. 
I  don't  know  that  I  can  write  it,  much  less  say  it, 
but  it  looks  to  me  this  way :  we've  come  out  here  to 
fight  to  win,  if  possible,  and  what  we  knew  before  we 
came  out,  what  we  have  seen  and  felt  since  being  here 
resolves  itself  into  this :  that  death  explains  life,  and 
dying  here  is  really  living.  We  can't  die,  even  if  they 
post  us  as  "dead."  We're  too  durned  interested  in 
living  to  die  at  any  time,  in  any  place.  You  see  we've 
got  to  live,  even  though  they  do  say  we  are  dead,  to 
help  out  and  finish  this  job.  Look  at  it  so  —  and 
remember  what  I  am  telling  you.  .  .  . 

It  is  my  conviction,  and  has  been  for  many  years, 
that  the  nations  had  forgotten  God.  On  the  surface 
it  did  not  look  so ;  but  if  they  were  put  under  oath 
they  would  bear  witness  to  the  fact  that  the  fear  of 
God  was  no  longer  with  them.  I  write  that  "word", 
but  I  prefer  the  Indian  "Great  Mystery." 

Men  have  taken  the  words  "God,  our  father"  on 
their  lips,  but  their  actions,  their  dealings  with  men, 
have  belied  the  brotherhood  implied ;  hi  a  word,  they 
have  been  perjuring  themselves  for  centuries. 

Men's  souls  have  been  veneered  with  the  dross  of 


348  Out  of  the  Silences 

gold,  and  veneer  of  any  kind  closes  the  pores.  You 
know  well  enough  the  result  of  that,  physically  and 
spiritually. 

Men  were  straining  after  supremity,  very  literally 
stealing  and  misapplying  the  force  behind  the  light- 
ning, what  the  ancients  called  the  "fire  from  heaven" ; 
and  their  punishment  is  being  meted  out  to  them 
through  the  death  instruments  of  their  own  invention. 

Men  were  bowing  down  before  idols  — •  before  the 
things  that  don't  count  in  real  living :  material 
possessions,  enervating  luxuries;  worshipping  the 
"  beast",  erecting  altars  to  strange  gods,  attributing 
to  themselves  something  of  the  powers  of  the  Supreme, 
the  Unknowable. 

Now,  we  find  the  nations  in  this  fourth  year  of  their 
purging.  It  may  be  the  process  will  last  forty  years, 
perhaps  forty  centuries.  I  remember  Jerusalem  and 
the  "two  thousand  years  plus" ;  and  I  have  lived  to 
see  its  redemption  through  blood  sacrifice,  even  as  we 
must  be  redeemed. 

Dare  we  assert  that  we,  as  a  nation,  are  more  right- 
eous than  others?  Better  than  they?  Our  skirts 
cleaner?  Our  Indians  —  what  of  that  "century  of 
(national)  dishonor  "  ?  Our  lips,  are  they  more  ready 
to  make  high  protest  against  injustice,  oppression, 
butchery,  outrage  ?  Remember  our  silence  —  and 
Belgium  bleeding,  crushed. 

Away  with  the  hypocrisy  of  it  all !  We've  got  to 
take  our  medicine,  all  of  us. 

We've  got  to  take  it  in  the  old  Indian  way  as  well, 
for  this  war  is  a  world  dream,  —  call  it  a  world  night- 
mare if  you  will,  —  and  in  it  and  by  means  of  it  we 
shall  find  our  "medicine."  It  will  be  shown  to  us 
in  this  dream  terror  what  that  world  medicine  shall 


In  the  Hills  of  France  349 

be.  And  sometime,  whether  this  year,  or  a  thousand 
years  hence,  when  we,  or  coming  generations,  shall 
have  fought  this  thing  through  to  final  victory,  a 
standard  shall  be  lifted  up  for  the  people.  They  shall 
all  see  it  —  all  the  tribes,  blood-redeemed,  whether 
Celt  or  Teuton,  Slav  or  Latin.  And  on  that  standard 
shall  be  pictured  the  "medicine"  of  their  great  world 
dream  of  war,  and  the  people  shall  look  to  that  and 
be  healed.  I  am  wondering  what  song  they'll  sing 
in  that  day? 

Preachy?  Sounds  like  it;  but  I'm  only  telling 
you  the  way  it  looks  to  me. 

At  this  moment  of  writing  you,  I  see  old  Carmastic, 
his  moccasmned  feet  shuffling  over  the  "Path  of  Life" 
he  has  drawn  in  the  accumulated  dirt  on  the  wigwam's 
hard  clay  floor,  and  hear  him  say  to  me : 

"So  it  is  with  our  Path  of  Life.  We  leave  no  trace 
on  the  trail.  It  is  only  our  medicine  that  lives  on." 

Now's  my  chance !  The  Colonel's  son-in-law,  Dick 
L.  —  you  remember  meeting  him  at  Groundhouse  ? 
—  goes  home  shortly,  permanently  invalided.  He 
will  take  this  package  and  get  it  through  to  you  some- 
how. It's  just  a  lot  of  scrappy  thinks  and  thoughts 
and  thunks  of  all  kinds  jotted  down  at  all  times  and 
places  for  just  you  and  me.  I  have  permission. 
I'm  so  glad  I  have  a  woman  of  my  own  with  whom  I 
can  share  my  "silences",  inner  and  outer.  So,  al- 
though I'm  dead  tired,  here  goes  for  a  kind  of  post- 
script to  all  the  scribble.  We're  back  of  the  lines 
resting. 

This  writing  to  your  best  friend,  who  happens  to  be 
the  woman  you  love,  under  the  gag  rule  of  censorship 
is,  of  course,  all  right  militarily ;  but  humanly  it's  a 


3  SO  Out  of  the  Silences 

fool  thing  just  the  same.  You  see,  surface  drainage 
is  needed  for  a  man's  heart  and  affections  even  in  the 
midst  of  war ;  and  if  he  doesn't  get  it  —  Well,  you 
know,  Alie,  just  what  I  mean  and  what  might  happen. 
This  is  a  part  of  the  comfort  of  you,  that  you  do  know 
just  what  I  mean ;  you  touch  bottom  with  both  feet 
where  another  woman  would  flounder. 

Wish  you  could  see  this ;  it's  some  land.  It's  like 
•what  I  mean  to  show  you  some  day  —  that  day  when 
we  take  the  long  road  together,  "We  two  together" 
(do  you  remember  that  Indian  Song  of  Cadman's? 
A  beautiful  thing),  and  follow  the  trails  of  my  youth. 
I  shall  never  rest  in  mind  or  muscle  until  I  shall  have 
shown  them  to  you,  never. 

It's  like  all  that  region  of  the  Turtle  Mountains 
with  a  touch  of  the  forests  to  the  west  of  North 
Lake.  Think  of  that,  to  find  yourself  over  here  in 
France  on  a  piece  of  country  that's  part  United  States, 
part  Canada!  Gee  whiz,  it  gives  a  man  a  heart- 
jump  just  to  look  out  over  it  from  a  hill  as  I  did  this 
afternoon :  little  valleys,  and  lakes,  and  hills,  almost 
mountains  —  a  broken  country  —  and  forests  dark 
against  their  snow-covered  slopes ;  great  cloud  masses, 
brilliantly  white  in  the  winter  sunshine,  sailing  through 
a  deep  blue  sky  over  hills,  valleys,  lakes,  woods. 
Beyond  these  eastern  heights  there  is  the  continual 
roar  of  guns. 

The  mere  looking  at  it !  And  I  am  back  again  for  an 
hour  in  my  boyhood  with  my  saddle-maker,  McGillie, 
and  the  dogs;  and  my  old  medicine-man  —  peace 
to  his  ashes !  He  was  full  of  years  and  it  was  time. 
His  last  message  to  me  in  one  of  your  letters  was  his 
first:  "Endure"  —  has  been  telling  me  of  the  centu- 
ries of  struggle  between  Cree  and  Sioux  for  the  region 


In  the  Hills  of  France  351 

of  the  Turtle  Mountains  sacred  to  them  through  tra- 
dition; how  for  centuries,  Alie,  the  tide  of  battle 
ebbed  and  flowed  around  that  hill  wilderness  of  the 
plains  —  a  regular  "  Indian  Verdun  ",  that  land. 

How  Carmastic  used  to  set  me  on  fire  with  his  tales 
of  the  old  Indian  days  and  ways !  I  count  it  some- 
thing for  a  white  boy  of  my  generation  to  have  heard 
those  stories  once  from  such  a  source.  .  .  . 

It's  curious;  I  see  Chum  and  Kinni-kinnik's 
brothers  side  by  side  with  white  men  in  this  struggle, 
—  there  has  been  no  segregation  of  the  Indians; 
they  are  in  the  battalions  just  like  the  rest  of  us,  — 
doing  the  same  stunts,  and  doing  them  even  better; 
heart  and  soul  in  this  work  of  warring;  seeing  daily 
enemy  acts  that  even  in  the  days  of  their  race's  ut- 
most savagery  were  never  equalled,  for  savagery  is 
not  civilized  brutery;  dependable,  helpful,  faithful, 
quiet,  mostly  silent,  trained  —  and  I  marvel  at  the 
change  in  the  Indian  status. 

These  men  represent  the  longing  and  desire  of  their 
race.  They  are  fighting  for  their  freedom  as  well  as 
for  ours.  They  deserve  well  of  their  country,  and  the 
nation  that  refuses  to  them  freedom,  citizenship,  and 
the  same  protection  of  the  common  law  and  the  ap- 
peal to  it  that  is  given  to  the  white  race,  will  write 
its  name  black  on  the  nation's  honor  roll,  after  this 
here  to  which  I  bear  witness. 

I  wish  I  might  read  the  whole  Indian  mind  on  this 
matter.  Chum  said  to  me  once  that  he  wished  his 
grandfather  might  have  lived  to  see  this  special  day. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'day'?"  I  asked  him. 

"I  mean  this  fight  with  white  men  to  free  other 
white  men.  It  is  our  warpath  to  freedom." 

You  get  the  Indian  thought?    They're  fighting 


352  Out  of  the  Silences 

for  their  own  freedom,  fighting  all  the  more  desperately 
because  they  know  from  their  fathers  of  the  wrongs 
their  race  has  suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  whites. 
After  centuries  of  the  white  man's  dominion  and 
tyranny  over  his  red  brothers,  after  his  damnable 
injustice  towards  them,  his  persecution  of  them, 
his  starving  and  killing  them,  his  uprooting  and 
hounding  them  from  one  reservation  to  another, — 
often  forgetting,  or  rather  showing  unwillingness  to 
recognize  them  in  brotherhood  because  they  happen 
to  be  human,  if  not  always,  under  the  goad  of  the 
white  race's  ways  of  dealing  with  them,  humane,  — 
just  look  at  these  few  Indians  here,  fighting  for 
us  !  It  makes  me  so  mad  to  think  of  what  they 
have  endured  that  I  must  not  write  about  it  or  I 
shall  "cuss"  all  over  this  page,  and  then  what  would 
you  say  to  — 

Three  days  later. 

A  hurry  call  from  the  trenches  interrupted  that  last. 

You  remember  my  telling  you  about  my  boy's  fast 
in  the  treetop  nest,  and  your  asking  me  to  tell  you 
that  dream  ?  And  how  I  told  you  that,  according  to 
Indian  belief,  a  man  may  not  tell  his  dream  until 
he  shall  have  followed  the  warpath?  That  he  might 
never  sing  his  dream  song  until  he  should  have 
followed  that  path  to  victory  ? 

I  remember  just  how  you  looked  when  you  asked  me 
if  I,  not  being  an  Indian,  wouldn't  tell  you?  And 
you  were  the  woman  I  loved,  and  I  so  wanted  to 
tell  you  what  had  never  been  told.  I  recall  the  look 
in  your  eyes  when,  not  wishing  to  break  my  spell  — • 
it  was  that ;  I  shall  have  to  own  up  —  I  gave  you 
an  evasive  answer.  You  see,  had  I  told  before  any 


In  the  Hills  of  France  353 

victory  was  mine,  I  should  have  lost  my  "medicine." 
It  was  hard  to  deny  you,  but  I  would  not  have  told 
you  that  dream,  love  or  no  love.  Now,  interpret 
this  as  best  you  can.  I'll  trust  you  to  understand. 

Never  mind.  You  did  not  tease  or  fret  me  as  a 
smaller-souled  woman  might  have  done ;  did  not 
tempt  me  with  coaxing.  You  just  smiled  again  at 
your  own  thoughts  —  wish  I  knew  what  they  were ! 

And  now,  my  only  Beloved,  whom  I  found  in  that 
northern  wilderness  of  ice  and  snow ;  whose  love  I 
have  set  "as  a  seal  upon  my  heart,  as  a  seal  upon  my 
arm"  (the  love  I  bear  you,  Alie,  is  as  "strong  as 
death";  and  out  here  we  have  come  to  know  that 
the  "strength  of  death"  is  life  eternal},  I  may,  at 
last,  tell  you  my  dream.  When  I  see  you  I  may  sing 
for  you  this  song  which  has  never  been  sung;  for 
know  that  I  have  fought  to-day,  fought  desperately 
—  to  Victory !  (Big  V  —  Glory  be !)  and  shall  fight 
again  to-night.  But  after  next  week,  I  shall  join 
up  with  our  own  boys  on  another  sector,  and  fight 
under  our  own  Red,  White,  and  Blue  —  thanks  be  to 
God. 

I  couldn't  help  it,  I  let  out  a  regular  warwhoop 
when  we  made  the  last  bayonet  charge;  and — 
you'll  have  to  believe  me  although  it  seems  un- 
believable—  above  the  awful  confusion  of  battle,  I 
heard  an  answering  yell.  It  was  Chum  near  me  and 
in  the  thick  of  it.  We're  out  of  that  thirty  minutes 
of  hell  all  whole  —  I  mean  the  Indians  and  I. 

Do  you  know,  I  think  I  shall  try,  sometime,  to  set 
my  dream  song  to  some  real  music.  All  day  long, 
amidst  the  boom  of  the  great  war  symphony,  a  little 
tune  has  been  running  in  my  head ;  the  idea  came  to 
me  when  — 


354  Out  of  the  Silences 

The  little  tune  of  this  morning  will  have  an  obligate 
accompaniment  of  roaring  "75's"  —  we're  off  again 
to  the  front.  Good-night,  and  love  —  always. 

3 

The  woman  looked  up  and  around  as  if  seeking  a 
presence.  He,  to  whom  the  giving  of  himself  in 
death  was  true  living  —  he  dead?  She  repudiated 
the  thought. 

She  turned  homewards,  and,  of  a  sudden,  knew  she 
was  not  alone.  Out  of  the  great  Unbroken  Silence 
he  had  come  to  walk  there  beside  her  in  the  Land  of 
Singing  Waters. 


Far  outside  the  common  run  ofjiction.  —  Dial,  Chicago 


THE  WOOD-CARVER 
OF  'LYMPUS 


By  M.  E.  WALLER 

Author  of  "  A  Daughter  of  the  Rich,"  etc. 

With  frontispiece  by  Chase  Emerson.     19mo.     $1.5§  net. 

A  strong  tale  of  human  loves  and  hopes  set  in  a  back- 
ground of  the  granite  mountain-tops  of  remote  New  Eng- 
land. —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

Hugh  Armstrong,  the  hero,  is  one  of  the  pronouncedly  high 
class  character  delineations  of  a  quarter  century.  —  Boston 
Courier. 

It  is  a  book  which  does  one  good  to  read  and  which  is  not 
readily  forgotten ;  for  in  it  are  mingled  inextricably  the  ele- 
ments of  humor  and  pathos  and  also  a  strain  of  generous 
feeling  which  uplifts  and  humanizes.  —Harry  Thurston  Peck, 
Editor  of  The  Bookman. 

A  few  books  are  published  every  year  that  really  minister 
to  the  tired  hearts  of  this  hurried  age.  They  are  like  little 
pilgrimages  away  from  the  world  across  the  Delectable  Moun- 
tains of  Good.  .  .  This  year  it  is  "The  Wood-Carver  of 
'Lympus."  ...  It  is  all  told  with  a  primitive  sweetness  that 
is  refreshing  in  these  days  when  every  writer  cultivates  the 
clever  style.  — Independent,  New  York. 

The  book  is  as  manly  as  Ralph  Connor  s,  and  written  with 
a  more  satisfying  art.  —  Amos  R.  Wells,  in  Christian  Endeavor 
World.  

LITTLE,    BROWN,    &    CO.,   PUBLISHERS,   BOSTON 
At  all  Booksellers' 


By  the  author  of  "  The  Wood-carver  of  'Lympus." 


A  CRY 
IN  THE  WILDERNESS 


By  MARY  E.  WALLER 
Frontispiece  in  color  by  A.  I.  Keller.    $1.50  net. 


As  complete  a  revelation  of  a  woman's  heart  and  mind  as 
Jane  Eyre.  — Boston  Globe. 

A  fresh  and  delightful  story,  full  of  living  interest  and  of 
sentiment—  New  York  World. 

A  worthy  successor  to  "The  Wood-carver  of  'Lympus"  and 
"Flamsted  Quarries."  .  .  .  Absorbing  and  emotion-stirring. 
— Philadelphia  Record. 

Really  an  uncommonly  interesting  romance.  ...  It 
carries  with  it  a  deep  human  appeal  that  cannot  escape  mature 
readers.  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

Miss  Waller  has  written  good  books  before,  notably  "The 
Wood-carver  of  'Lympus,"  but  her  latest  may  be  regarded  as 
her  best— St.  Louis  Post-Despatch. 

Tells  with  much  emotional  power,  a  story  with  a  tangled  plot 
and  mystery.  Miss  Waller  writes  with  distinction,  and  her  work 
is  always  characterized  by  fineness  of  fibre  and  nobility  of 
feeling. —  New  York  Times. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
34  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTON 


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